Part 1: Chapter 2: Heat is nothing in comparison to betrayal.

Iraqi desert, March 2019.

Shocked he stared at the explicit photos.

Excessive perspiration dripped from him, unnoticed. The boiling heat; airless.

His attention arrested with the terrible images engraved in his mind. The betrayal left him in utter devastation.

Before long, uncontrollable hatred replaced the shock as he tossed them in the corner. It connected with a filing cabinet with a thud.

His marriage was a farce!

Vile tasting disbelief infiltrated his mouth. Balling fists pressed against the desk, his vision blurred. Automatically his fingers massaged his temples and pinched himself.

His lovely wife of twenty-five years. How could she? He had been home in February when they celebrated it, and now this.

He picked up the crumbled pictures and straightened them. The digital date and time on each caught his scrutiny - captured adequately over four years - the last one the day he left. Her track of deceit adequately defined in each emotion and position.

It joined the rest of the discarded pack. His personal world had tilted in seconds: from virtuous to depraved in a heartbeat.

The uncomfortable silence stifled the office and chairs moved. Colonel Curt McGee avoided the staff, disgraced.

He swiped the images from the table and collapsed back into his seat. Anger tightened his jaw which framed the day-old stubble.

"Sir, is everything okay?" Curt looked at his aid, speechless.

How could she? We made love that last day. We assured each other of our devotion. I was the luckiest husband on earth. The next night she was back in her lover's arms and by the roguish looks, enjoying herself.

"I'm going for a walk!"

"Yes, Sir!!" The Colonel's normal straight shoulders slumped, the long strides weaker.

Doug regarded the coloured prints with unease. The woman was in an appealing encounter. Buck naked, the guy pounded into her. Her hips held in a fierce grip. She was a looker.

Footsteps on gravel propelled him into action and jumbled them together, shoved it back into the large envelope marked in bold letters: Colonel Curt McGee. He then placed it in the desk's drawer.

He straightened as Sergeant First Class Ralph entered the office. A deep frown creased his rugged face. He glanced through the workplace.

"Is the colonel here?" the stern voice thundered. His DNA formed with military precision. The broad shoulders and perfect stance brooked no-nonsense.

Doug saluted him and the moment he acknowledged him, he relaxed.

"Just stepped out, Sir."

Curt walked to the furthest end of the camp. How could she? Sand drifted into the warm air. And with that person? More sand floated upwards. Out of breath he glanced around, his throat parched.

A jeep pulled up and he waved the soldier closer. The private saluted, but he demanded the keys with a careless gesture. He jumped in and stepped on the accelerator. The engine roared into action as it left the camp in a dust trail.

"That bitch!" he groaned, banging the steering wheel, with tears evaporating in the drive.

Fifteen minutes later Curt stopped at the local tearoom, the owner a well-known patron of the town. Usually Curt refused his subtle offerings, but today he wanted to forget.

Once inside he removed his shades. It took a few seconds to adjust to the dimness.

Elaborated carpets, curtains and cushions divided the room into sections. The cosy place was a favourite amongst the military staff. Satisfied that he had the place to himself, he relaxed. The owner manned the battered counter to the right of him.

Samer Sleiman, the proud owner of the establishment, met Curt with a slight bob. He beamed with pleasure. "Ah, my favourite officer," he said, twisting his hands with the unexpected fortune.

"What do you have?" Curt asked with added interest.

"I have anything you want, my leech." Sleiman fawned with submissiveness.

"Bourbon?"

"Ah, an excellent choice, my leech."

He scrutinised the colonel. Allah has blessed him with an unusual feast; one he will savour, he thought with a smirk.

He had waited for this officer to cave.

He hated the western capitalists. They walked into his place as if it belonged to them. It irked him every time he came face to face with one of them. He made money from their drunken debauchery with no guilt.

"Any other pleasures?" Samer's hands gestured two boobs in front of him. Curt did not understand the illustration until the penny dropped.

"Yes."

"Room?"

"Yes."

"Now I can entertain the officer in my modest abode," and the ugly face transformed into an uglier mug.

"Follow me, my leech," he ordered with arrogant confidence. Samer led the way deeper into the dimmed place. The steady gait of the client energised his own pace.

The depilated stairs led to a darkened hallway. At the door of a shabby room Samer stepped aside as the officer entered and closed it with a wicked grin. It took him minutes to collect the beverages and called for his wife's niece. She would do.

Back in the room the officer showed no interest when he approached him. With undeterred greed, he spoke: "You will love this, my leech."

Samer presented the bottle with a well-known bourbon sticker. For the first time the officer's attention perked while he opened the cap. He filled a glass with the rich amber and served it. The officer sniffed the content and rolled his eyes.

Samer knew it was the best batch of bourbon he had bought. The apt name of Heaven's door with its distinctive flavour, a favourite amongst the rich Americans. Today was undeniably an outstanding day to open the case.

Pleased with the label Curt swallowed the golden liquid, the burning sensation a welcome sensation and he smacked his lips. As he caught the greed filled face, he snatched the bottle from him and ignored the gleeful chuckle.

"Bring another!" he ordered, tossing money on the bed.

Samer bowed. "I have a present, with your permission."

He waved towards the door. A woman, enclosed in black, approached them.

"I'm sure she will pleasure you, yes?" The owner pressed the girl closer. Quietly he watched her approach. When she stopped Curt removed her hijab.

Hell, she is younger than my daughter! With scorn he looked at the man directly behind her, his beady eyes sinister and smug before it returned to the girl. Outraged he wanted to dismiss her, then paused. A moral fight inside weighed him down.

"Does she please you?"

"Isn't she too young?" Long black hair protected the face, her gaze diverted to the floor.

"No, my leech, I assure you she's twenty," Samer replied, smacking her on the butt. She shrieked and blushed. Her nervous giggle echoed through him. This was not him.

Curt groaned; she was someone's daughter.

He knocked back another swig, then got to his feet. Dust motes swirled upwards with the motion and she coughed. A small hand protected her mouth.

He touched her hair and let the silk glide through his fingers. Huge, scared eyes stared at him, her innocence a sharp contrast to the environment they were in.

With a sneer he pushed them aside and left; bottle in his hand.