Taking Fire

Satisfied they were alone, she glanced back to check the bunker, not trusting Rachel to stay put as she’d asked. An undercurrent of respect cut through her annoyance. Rachel was as stubborn as she was courageous, which was considerable. That she didn’t fully comprehend the danger didn’t lessen her bravery. If she was captured, as an American—almost certainly one of some kind of notoriety—at best she’d be held for ransom and not killed, but even captivity would not protect her from brutality. She’d very likely become the property of the rebel commander, and abusing and humiliating women was often a show of power. With luck he wouldn’t share her with his top lieutenants, but sometimes passing around a woman was another way of declaring dominance. No matter the outcome, death or debasement, she would be scarred forever.

Max’s jaw throbbed as she gritted her teeth. Rachel and Amina shouldn’t need to know those things, shouldn’t need to think about them, and she didn’t fault Rachel for her reckless fearlessness. But tonight, she needed her to be just a little afraid. Fear bred caution and was nothing to be ashamed of. She was always a little bit afraid, somewhere in the deep recesses of her soul, but she had long ago learned that fear could be turned into a weapon. For her, fear of remaining forever a shadow, invisible to those who should have noticed, had become the driving force to forge a life where she could feel worthwhile, even if she never wholly escaped the shadows. She slipped inside the tent where Grif lay on the litter alone. Here was her worth. A life to protect. She knelt by his side, flipped up her goggles, and focused the lowest beam of the flashlight clipped to her belt onto his leg.

The dark irregular island in the center of his bandage had not expanded. The bleeding had stopped. She lifted his hand to check his pulse.

“What the fuck are you doing, Deuce?” Grif rasped in the dark. “Making a pass?”

She grinned, the sound of his voice easing the band of tension circling her chest just a little. “Dream on, buddy.”

“Been dreaming, I think,” he muttered. “Weird shit. What—”

“Shut up a minute.” Max slid her fingers onto his radial pulse and counted silently to herself as she followed the sweep hand on her tactical watch. Still tachy, but regular. She placed his hand gently back on his belly and shifted a little higher so she could look down into his face. In the dark, she could barely see his eyes, but they were open and fixed on her. “You’re looking better. How do you feel?”

“Like fucking road kill. Where are we?”

“At the aid camp. You remember the mission?”

“Yeah. Clusterfuck.” He licked his lips. “Fuck, I’m thirsty.”

“Here.” She unhooked her canteen, supported his head, and helped him drink.

When he finished, he sank back, breathing heavily. “What about extraction?”

“Timing unknown.” Max didn’t need to sugarcoat anything for him, wouldn’t want him to spare her the truth if things were reversed. “The coms are spotty, but they know we’re here.”

“Casualties?”

“Three of the Somali security guards are dead. Most of the others were evacuated.” She opened a pack of cookies, held one to his mouth. “Here. You can use the fuel. We took a couple of hits before the birds could get out of here.”

He grimaced. “Fuck. I remember heading for the bird with—” He tried to sit up.

“Whoa. You’re not going anywhere. You had a pretty big bleeder in your thigh and I don’t want it opening up again.”

“What about the objective? Winslow?”

Max jolted, confused by a millisecond of disconnect. The objective. Winslow. Rachel had stopped being the objective, the goal of a mission, without her realizing it. The hours they’d worked together, clashing wills and revealing long-held secrets, felt like weeks, time compressed by shared horror and danger and moments of naked clarity. “Rachel. She’s still here with Amina, another civilian. I’ve got them in a bunker in the center of the camp.”

His face clouded. “You expecting company?”

“Maybe. No sign of any forces nearby, as far as I was able to check, but best to be prepared.” She shrugged. “I figured they’d be better protected and better able to defend themselves if they were dug in.”

“So what are you doing in here instead of out there with them?”

She grinned. She’d missed him—missed his counsel and the understanding that required no words. He knew, without her needing to say, what they faced. His courage fed hers, and she hoped she gave a little of that back to him. “I can’t get you down into the bunker without moving your leg more than I want to. You lost a lot of blood but things are stable now.”

“That must be why I feel about as strong as a gnat.” He raised his head and looked around. “Supply tent?”

“More or less.”

“They’ll check it.”

“Yep.” If they got by her, but he didn’t say it. Didn’t need to. “That’s why I’m about to drag your sorry ass into the back where you won’t be lit up like a neon sign that says shoot me.”

He nodded. “Give me a gun and as much ammo as you can spare.”

“Without saying.” She crab-walked around to the head of the litter, gripped the wooden poles that supported the canvas bed, and slowly pulled him backward across the dirt floor into the far reaches of the tent, to where anyone casually checking from the doorway might miss him. She knelt beside him again, took his automatic from her belt along with an ammo clip, and put it all next to his right hand. “You probably won’t need to use this, but it’s got a full clip and there’s a spare there.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Hunker down outside and shoot any fuckers that get close.”

He laughed. “You should’ve been a SEAL, Deuce.”

“Wrong equipment.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “I’m pretty fond of mine, but maybe it’s overrated sometimes.”

“Different strokes. Besides, I’d rather patch holes than make ’em, but you do what you have to, right?”

“True.” His mouth twisted and he exhaled sharply. “Listen, if things go sideways, tell Laurie it was quick. I don’t want her picturing all kinds of shit.”

“We’ll be okay.” She squeezed his arm. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Keep your head down, Deuce.”

Max smiled, remembering Rachel’s fierce whisper. “Planning on it.”

She left him because she had no choice, just as she had left Rachel and Amina. She’d rather be beside them, her body a shield, but she couldn’t protect them all. She picked a position on the far side of the camp where she had a clear view of the spot where the rebels had emerged from the jungle earlier. Chances were if they came back, they’d return the same way. She crouched and watched and waited, listening for a change in the night sounds with half a mind, the other half-tuned for a burst of static on the radio that would tell her help was on the way. When the first explosive rumble shook the air, close enough for her to feel the vibrations through her knees where she knelt on the ground, her pulse leapt. Adrenaline surged, the call to action overpowering fear. Finally, it had begun.

*

Thunder broke the silence with a crash that shook Rachel to the core. Stunned, heart frozen in her chest, she stared above the canopy as fireworks lit up the sky. Breathtaking tails of brilliant red and orange slashed heavenward. Sunbursts of bright yellow umbrellas floated across the inky backdrop, a staccato light show that would have been beautiful if it hadn’t been so terrifying. Rachel pulled her dazzled gaze away from the sky and stared through the gap in the barrier toward the jungle, waiting for the phantom forms, nightmare images dragged from her subconscious, to take shape and race toward her. She steadied the rifle on top of the mound of rice bags, her finger trembling on the trigger. Where was Max? Her mind screamed for her to press the trigger, to fire into the shadows, to shoot at every flickering finger of darkness that reached toward her.

“Max, damn it,” she whispered. “Where are you?”

“Are they coming?” Amina said, crowding close to Rachel in the small space.

“I don’t know. Do you see anything?”

“No, but I think I’m too frightened to see.”

Rachel was more worried her own fear would make her see things that weren’t there. Reminding herself she’d taught herself never to trust what she couldn’t see clearly, she forced herself to breathe, just breathe, and concentrated on the dark, sorting shadows into recognizable shapes. There a tree, over there a log, there a trick of light turning a tatter of canvas into a skulking man. “Max is out there somewhere. We don’t shoot unless she does. Wait for Max.”

“Yes.” Amina’s voice was steadier. “Max will come.”

“She will.” Rachel was absurdly pleased that her voice did not tremble. “Remember. Don’t shoot until she gets here.”

“How long do we wait? If…”

Rachel swallowed. She didn’t know. Couldn’t think beyond Max returning. Couldn’t let herself picture anything else. “We’ll know when. Keep watch while I check behind us.”

“All right.”

Rachel half turned to scan around the camp the way Max had taught her. Only the shadows looked back. “I don’t see—”

Amina screamed. A shape catapulted over the rice bags and into the foxhole. Rachel’s heart rocketed into her throat and she raised the rifle.

“Friendly.” Max crouched beside them. Her face was partially obscured by the protruding night goggles. Her body was nearly shapeless in the half dark beneath layers of armor and camo. She could have been anyone, except for the distinctive line of her jaw and the slight squareness of her chin and the incongruous fullness of lips far too sensuous for her usual stern expression.

Rachel had never seen a more beautiful sight. “Are you trying to get me to shoot you?”

“Not just yet.” Max pivoted to watch the sky. “Looks like ground-to-air rockets. That’s tracer fire—machine guns shooting back.”

“What’s happening?” Amina asked.

“Rebel ground forces firing at inbound birds, I’d say. About three clicks away from here.”

Rachel looped her arm around Amina’s waist, as much for her own comfort as Amina’s. “Are the rebels coming, then?”

“Maybe,” Max said. “Maybe not. Maybe we were just the bait all along. I think they want the Black Hawks.”

“Why?” Rachel glanced back and forth between Max and the jungle, half expecting someone else to drop down beside them, this time an enemy with a rifle or a knife.

“Intelligence, the weapons, maybe just the bragging rights.” Max shook her head. “Who knows how they think? Any kind of victory, even if it’s fabricated, probably helps them recruit more followers.”

“It’s crazy,” Rachel murmured.

“Yeah, it is.” Max gripped Rachel’s arm. “I’m going back out. Don’t fire unless you hear shooting first. Then if anyone approaches and it’s not me, fire at anything that moves.”

“Stay here.” Rachel heard the tremor in her voice this time and didn’t care. She wasn’t afraid to be left alone—she was afraid for Max to be alone out there in the dark. “Please.”

Max’s fingers tightened on her arm. “We’ve got a better chance if I go. I’ll be back.”

“Do you keep your promises?”

“Yes.”

“Then promise.”

Max hesitated, moonlight glinting in her eyes. “I’ll do my best. I promise.”

“Your best better be damn—”

Max jerked her rifle to her shoulder. “Get down.”

Rachel ducked and pushed Amina behind her. Keeping her head below the top of the barrier, she crowded next to Max and squinted into the dark. Another explosion lit up the camp and she saw them. Shadows within shadows, creeping out from the jungle. Animals? Humans? Her imagination?

“Max?” She held her breath, afraid the pounding of her heart would give their position away. Beside her, Max was as still as stone. For an instant, Rachel imagined taking shelter against her, leaning on her strength. She knew she could and Max would not think less of her, but she would think less of herself. Tugging her lower lip between her teeth, she forced herself to see the nightmares in the night.

Chapter Fourteen

Max steadied her rifle and focused through her night-vision goggles on the spot where she’d detected movement. If she hadn’t spent her share of time on night maneuvers, she never would have recognized the faint blur in her vision for what it was—the fleeting break in the tree line made by four men ghosting into camp. Four men inside their perimeter, circling around to converge on the center from four directions. Four against three, and Amina and Rachel were completely untrained. Their best hope was to even the odds.

“Rachel,” she whispered, “move around behind me and watch our rear. Keep your head down.”

“Right.” Rachel shifted as carefully as she could, certain that every crunch of stone beneath her boots, loud as a cannon shot, was audible for miles. She might as well shout, Over here! And what would she do if she saw someone?

Shoot? Yes. No. Could she? Until this moment, the idea of actually killing another human being had never been real. Earlier, when she’d been infuriated at the senseless slaughter of her friends and alternately terrified and outraged that the rebels might return to wreak more violence, she’d wanted to strike back as viciously as she’d been attacked, or thought she’d wanted to. She’d wanted to lash out to ease her pain, but now, peering into the dark with her finger on the trigger of a weapon that only a day before she would never have considered even picking up, she wondered if she could take a life. And if she could, what did it say about who she’d become?

Amina crouched beside her, and Rachel knew in that instant she would pull the trigger if it meant protecting herself and her friend. She would have to worry about the consequences later. Max was only a few feet away, but she dared not look over her shoulder, dared not look away from whatever lurked in the dark. Just knowing Max was behind her, protecting her, made her feel safe in a situation where safety was impossible, and she held on to that feeling while she searched for danger. Her eyes felt dry and tight, and she realized she wasn’t blinking for fear that one millisecond of inattention would cost her everything. How did anyone survive this madness day after day? And at what cost?

She couldn’t see anything out there except the soft flutter of tent flaps. That was all it was, right? That faint shimmer in the hazy moonlight slivering across the bare ground like shards of glass scattered by a giant hand. If someone was coming, she couldn’t see them.

“Max,” she whispered, “I can’t see anything. What—”

“I’ve lost them too,” Max said.

“Are you sure they’re out there?”

“My gut says yes, but whoever they are, they’re good.” Max swore under her breath, the vehemence surprising Rachel. “They might be searching the tents. Grif is alone. I’m going out.”

Panic surged. “No. If they’re here—”

Max edged next to her and unexpectedly clasped the back of her neck, her grip warm and strong and welcome.

“You’ll be all right,” Max murmured, her mouth close to Rachel’s ear. “You can do this.”

“I can’t,” Rachel whispered urgently. “Not without you. I won’t know when…I’m not sure if—”

Max’s fingers tightened on her nape, gentle and firm. Max’s breath seemed to slip beneath Rachel’s skin and soothe the sharp edges of her terror. “Yes, you can. I’ll be back. Remember?”

Amina pressed close to Rachel’s side. “Trust her…and yourself.”

“I…” Rachel gathered herself, tamped down the fear that clogged her throat. She never wanted Max to move her hand. She didn’t want to let the nightmares back in. “All right. Go. Go see to Grif.” She reached for Amina’s hand. Amina was steady and her certainty helped bolster Rachel’s resolve. “We’re good.”

“That’s my girl,” Max murmured.

For the first time in her life, Rachel didn’t mind being called a girl. She didn’t need to argue that she was a woman. Everything about the way Max spoke to her, touched her, said she already knew.

“Be careful.” Rachel wouldn’t beg Max to come back quickly. Max would do what she needed to do, and so would she.

“You too.”

And then Max levered herself up, rolled over the bags, and was gone. Rachel tried to follow her movement across the ground and thought she saw her flickering in and out of the shadows, but she couldn’t be sure. All the shadows looked the same. She wet her dry lips. “Amina, can you watch out the other side.”

“Yes. We’ll be all right,” Amina whispered.

Rachel watched and waited. In the distance, closer now than before, the pop of rifle fire, the sharp crack of explosives, and the constant barrage of things bursting in the sky continued. She had the absurd thought that she’d never be able to look at a light show again, never be able to hear thunder without experiencing an instant of terror. No matter what happened out here tonight, she was already changed forever.

*

Max raced for the cover of the nearest tent, expecting a round to take her down at any second. Whoever was out there surely had night goggles and saw her as she had seen them, and they were better than she was. She might have a rifle, but she was no tactical sailor. She could shoot as well as most on the firing range, but she was a surgeon first. Necessity made her a warrior, and she’d fight as long as she could to protect Grif and Rachel and Amina, but she was outnumbered and out of her element.

And what-if-ing wasn’t going to do her a damn bit of good. She had a plan and she wasn’t going to come up with a better one now. First step was to make sure Grif hadn’t fallen asleep or passed out from the pain—if he was awake, he could defend himself, even with one leg out of commission, better than Rachel and Amina. Once she knew he was secure, she could decide whether to head for the jungle in the hope of drawing the intruders away, stand out in the open and fight, or take a defensive position in the foxhole with Rachel and Amina. She checked the immediate area, saw no one, and sprinted across the twenty yards between her and the admin tent. Halfway there something hard and huge hit her in the midsection, her feet left the ground, and she flew a good ten feet and landed on her back with her rifle under her. The air whooshed out of her lungs when she hit, and a heavy body landed on top of her, making it impossible for her to drag in air. Gagging, gasping for breath with muscles that wouldn’t work, she fumbled for her sidearm. A formless face, masked by night-vision goggles and opaque camouflage paint, hovered over hers. The glint of steel flashed as a knife blade touched her throat.

A deep male voice rumbled, “Hernandez, SEAL Team Four. Who are you?”

“De Milles…” Max’s ribcage heaved as air rushed back in and she bit back a moan. Cracked rib or two. “Navy Medical Corps.”

He eased to the side and the crushing weight lessened. “Good to see you, de Milles.”

He grabbed her jacket, hoisted her up, and dragged her across the open ground to the cover of the nearest tent. “Sorry about the tackle. Had to be sure you weren’t some muj in a confiscated uniform. Where are the others?”

Max had only a second to savor the relief. They were still in the middle of a firefight and a long way from safe. “One wounded in the big tent on the left. Two civilians in a foxhole in the center of the camp.”

“One of the civilians name of Winslow?”

“That’s right,” Max said. “What’s the situation?”

“The birds can’t make it here—too much ground activity. We have to walk out a ways.” He murmured into his com link, instructing someone to get Grif.

“How close are the rebels?”

He shrugged. “If they give up on trying to take out a bird, they could be here in twenty minutes. Best guess—we’ll have a forty-minute head start.”

“Listen,” Max said, “I want to get back to the civilians. Get them ready to move out.”

“Water and ammo. We’re traveling light and fast.”

“Roger that.”

She crawled on hands and knees back to the foxhole, whispered, “It’s Max,” and rolled over and in.

“What’s happening?” Rachel asked.

“Four SEALs are here to get us out,” Max said. “We’re leaving.”

“Where are the helicopters?” Amina asked.

“They can’t get here. We’re walking out.” Max kept her tone upbeat. A forty-minute head start might be enough for trained navy SEALs, but they’d be walking out with two civilians and a wounded man on a litter. If the rebels moved on the camp soon and picked up their trail, the rebels would catch up to them before they’d gotten a mile. “You up for that?”

Rachel gave a short laugh. “I’ll walk from here to Mogadishu if I have to. What should we do?”

“Grab a light pack from the pile of gear and fill it with water and some MREs.” Max stuffed her pockets and pack with ammo.

“How far will we have to go?” Amina asked.

“I don’t know—far enough away so the birds can get to us.” Max climbed back out, reached down, and helped first Amina, then Rachel out of the foxhole. “Stay close to me.”

She led them quickly to the point where the SEALs had emerged from the jungle. Two men in combat gear seemed to materialize out of the air.

“We’re Jones and Adeen, your escorts this evening,” one of them said with a wide grin and a Texas twang. “Are you ladies up for a stroll?”

“Can’t wait,” Rachel said.

Hernandez and the last SEAL, a tall thin African American, jogged up with Grif on a litter between them. Hernandez said, “Let’s rock and roll.”

The SEALs sandwiched Rachel and Amina between the first two men and the litter bearers. Max slid in beside Rachel. “How are you doing?”

“Happy to be moving. I just wish it wasn’t so dark.”

Max rested a hand on her lower back. “Don’t try to see—just follow the man in front of you. Your feet will know what to do. After a while, your eyes will adjust and it will get easier.”

“I can’t imagine anything ever being easier.”

“I’m sorry,” Max murmured, wishing she could rewind the clock to the moments before Grif was shot and Rachel and Amina still had a chance to get out. Wishing she could undo the horror and fear that followed.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Rachel said softly. “Without you we might have tried to make it out on our own—and who knows where we’d be now. I know you kept me sane.”

She shivered and Max instinctively slid her arm around her and pulled her close. “You were amazing. Just hang on a little while longer.”

“No choice.” Rachel sighed. “Do you need to check on Grif?”

“Yes, for a minute.”

“Go. I’m okay now. Just a momentary pity party.”

“You’re entitled.” Max didn’t want to let her go but Grif needed her. “I’ll be right back.”

Rachel’s smile was visible even in the murky light. “So you keep saying.”

Max grinned. “Limited repertoire.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Ask Grif sometime—he’ll tell you.”

“I just might.”

Still smiling, Max slipped back to the side of the litter. Grif’s face was tight with pain. “Doing okay?”

“Better than I was.” Grif grunted. “Fucking leg hurts like a mother.”

“I’d rather hold off on the pain meds unless it gets really bad.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to be knocked out if things get hot either.” Grif coughed and took a minute to catch his breath. “How are the women doing?”

“They’re tough,” Max said with a rush of pride. “Smart and resourceful too. They’ll make it.”

“You done good, Deuce.”

“You just hang in there.” She squeezed his shoulder. “I won’t be far away.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. Max worked her way back up to Rachel. “Everything okay?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life.” Rachel’s voice was tinged with bitterness. “And isn’t that a sorry statement.”

Max rubbed Rachel’s shoulder. “You’ve just been through a hell most people can’t even imagine. The shock is setting in. Once you get out of here and get some rest, life will make sense again.”

Rachel’s fingers touched hers, warm and soft. For a heartbeat, the jungle, the battle, the insanity of life in the balance disappeared. Max shuddered, glad for the cover of darkness to hide the wanting she couldn’t control.

“Will it?” Rachel said. “Once you’ve seen this madness, can you ever go back?”

Max didn’t answer. Her truth was not one she would wish on anyone, especially not Rachel.

Chapter Fifteen

Rachel would never be frightened by shadows again, not after discovering what true darkness was really like. Time in this disorienting blackness lost all meaning. Once they’d left the encampment, the canopy completely blocked out the sky for long moments that might’ve been hours or minutes or days. When even the shadows died and she stared open-eyed into utter blackness, she stumbled along blind, following the soldier in front of her by instinct and senses she’d never known she had. Maybe she was drawn to his body heat, like some ancient creature pulled to the surface of the ocean by the primal call of the sun. Maybe she crept along in his wake out of a primitive drive for self-preservation while he became a human shield, pushing aside the clawing branches and vines that grasped at her from either side.

Her heart raced wildly and panic bubbled in her throat. She couldn’t relax enough to capture a full breath, afraid the instant her hypervigilance ebbed, she’d be attacked. She doubted she’d ever relax again.

Amina was nearby, being guided by another one of these phantom rescuers whose faces Rachel had never seen and on whom she relied completely. Every now and then she caught Amina’s scent, still as sweet and light and undaunted as Amina’s spirit. She clung to that elusive reminder of the life she’d known before the nightmare until the pungent jungle smells finally pressed in from every side and obliterated it.

Isolated in the dark, her only touchstone was a faint pressure in the center of her back from Max’s fingers. The entire endless time they’d been walking—stumbling, in her case—Max was always there, just beside her, never letting her get lost. Every now and then, like a gift made all the more precious by its sudden appearance when she’d given up hoping for it, a bit of moonlight filtered through the trees. When her eyes grasped it in a desperate attempt to right a world gone mad, she’d catch the outline of a helmet and a darker shape against the other shapeless forms. Max.

Some of the choking heaviness in her chest lightened, and she centered herself in the light press of Max’s fingers, a reminder, silent and strong and unwavering, that she was not alone in this terrible madness. She reached into the dark and found Max’s arm. Gripped it.

“You’re doing great,” Max whispered.

Rachel choked back a disbelieving laugh at the bald-faced lie. How did Max know what she needed when she’d refused to admit needing anything even to herself? Could Max feel her panic—read her mind? Or had she always been so transparent and just been fooling only herself all these years? Max was so very good at seeing what she’d always managed to keep from others. She’d always worked so hard to maintain the façade of courage and control, from pretending she wasn’t terrified to go to bed as a child to convincing everyone, including herself, she didn’t need anything more than a meaningful career and casual, convenient physical relationships to be happy.

Maintaining any kind of façade out here was impossible. They were all naked, reduced to their most basic needs and desires and fears. From the moment Max had stepped out of the dark and looked into her eyes, she’d seen beneath her mask.

“Thanks for lying,” Rachel said, finally free to let the mask drop away. “I’m scared witless.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of.” The fingers against her back became a palm, pressing a little more firmly, gliding down and up. A comforting caress. No, not a caress. Max, doing what she did so very well. Taking care of people.

“I’m sorry,” Rachel whispered, feeling selfish for wanting the comfort, for asking more of Max when Max had already done so much. She should be stronger than this. Just like the child whose parents left her in the dark to face her fears, she had to be stronger if she wanted to be loved. God, what was next—begging Max not to leave her again? Max was just being Max and reading anything else into her actions was a mistake. She released Max’s arm. “I’m fine. You don’t need to—”

“Maybe I need to.” Max’s voice was rough, urgent. “Maybe I want to.”

Rachel shivered. I want to…what? Help you? Protect you? Touch you? She didn’t need that. Didn’t want that. Did she?

“Hold up,” a low male voice ordered.

Rachel stopped on command, feeling like a soldier of sorts.

The SEAL leader said, “Over this ridge there’s a nomad camp. All indications are it’s deserted. There’s room enough for the bird to set down. Two minutes. We’ll make a run for it.”

Max said, “Roger that.”

Two minutes. Two minutes and it would all be over. A million thoughts crowded into Rachel’s head. Was this it? Was she about to die? Had anything she’d ever done really mattered? She’d arrived in this place so far from home filled with purpose and passion, determined to make a difference in a way that really counted, not, as her father wished, in the marble halls of government where greed and personal appetite distorted the higher purpose of the office, but here on the front lines where people put their beliefs into action. She’d chosen a life completely the opposite of everything she’d grown up with to prove she was capable of banishing the monsters all on her own. To prove to her parents?—to herself?—that she was not afraid. She’d committed her time and energy, and sacrificed her comfort and her personal life, in pursuit of her goals. She hadn’t anticipated she’d have to risk even more—that she’d have to put her life, not just her ideology, on the line in the most fundamental of ways. Max had shown her what true bravery was. She had become part of a new team, a new cadre determined to survive, and she would give her life for any one of them—for Max, for Amina, for Grif, for these nameless, faceless men who had risked their lives for hers.

In her last remaining moments, she turned quickly to Max. Maybe it was a trick of her imagination, maybe somewhere high above a leaf fluttered, allowing moonlight to slip through the canopy, but Max’s face was clearly visible in the darkness. So much she wanted to say and no words that could ever say enough. “Thank you. For everything.”

Max paused for a long time. Her eyes glinted, intense and penetrating. “You’re welcome.”

Rachel smiled. Max understood.

“Get ready,” the SEAL in front of her said.

Rachel couldn’t imagine running through this inky soup, but she would if it meant getting out of here. If they told her to fly, she’d figure out a way to do it.

“I’m going back with Grif,” Max said.

Rachel gripped her arm. “Just make sure you get on the helicopter. Please.”

“I’ll be there.” Max’s hand glided over her back before her fingers skimmed down Rachel’s arm to her hand. Max squeezed her fingers. “Stick with Hernandez, no matter what.”

“But—”

“Don’t look back. Just go.”

Hernandez gripped her upper arm firmly. “Let’s go.”

Rachel was tugged forward and Max disappeared. Her feet caught up with her body, pedaling forward faster and faster, and then she was running, crashing through underbrush, gasping for breath, her arms in front of her face to ward off the branches slapping at her. Closer and closer she raced toward the angry buzz of thousands of bees—a rogue hive that turned out to be helicopter rotors whirring madly. Mercifully, the jungle finally released its stranglehold and she burst into a clearing, the moonlight so intense she blinked furiously to clear the tears welling in her eyes. There in the center of a clearing ringed with decaying huts and tiny overgrown plots marked out by low stone walls sat a helicopter. Just ahead of her Amina give a sharp cry of joy and lurched forward to keep up with the SEAL whose arm encircled her waist. Rachel slowed and jerked around, searching the towering wall of vegetation behind her. Where were the others? Where was Max?

Gunfire erupted. Lightning streaked from the helicopters and the air resounded with automatic weapons fire. Rachel cried out.

“Come on!” Hernandez jerked her toward the Black Hawk, and her feet nearly left the ground.

“What about the others?” she shouted.

“Just keep moving. And keep your head down!”

“We can’t just leave them.” Her words were lost in the vortex of swirling sand and pulsating air.

Up ahead, someone inside the helicopter reached down and lifted Amina up as if she were a child. When Rachel was a few feet away, hands grasped her by the waist and arms and she was airborne, her feet flying from the ground and landing on the metal floor of the helicopter with a bone-jarring thud. Once she regained her balance, she stared at the figures crowded into a small space almost as claustrophobic as the foxhole had been.

“Are you injured?” A female voice, the face partially obscured by a helmet. Kind brown eyes. Not indigo, not Max.

“I…” Rachel spun toward the open door. The ground below was swallowed in the night.

A hand on her arm. Her face was clearer now. Young, intense. “I’m Corpsman Delgado. Are you injured?”

“No,” Rachel shouted above the din, straining to see through the murk and dust. “I’m…fine.”

“Good. Over here.”

Delgado led her to a place against the side of the helicopter’s belly and she slid down, her legs turned to jelly. Someone placed a blanket over her. Amina crowded close and gripped her hand.

“We made it,” Amina said, tears streaking her cheeks and triumph shining in her eyes. “It’s all over.”

Rachel eased her arm around Amina’s waist and leaned into her. “Yes. It’s all over.”

She hoped Amina believed the lie. A series of pings rattled against the metal shell and someone shouted, “We’re taking fire.”

The Black Hawk vibrated as the motor revved. Delgado hooked a safety strap to a line above their heads, her body swaying as the helicopter rocked from side to side. They were taking off.

“No,” Rachel cried, throwing the blanket aside. “Max!” She tried to get to her knees and nearly fell.

“Stay down,” a soldier yelled and blocked her way.

“Where are the others?” Where was Max? Max would never have left her. She couldn’t leave her. With a scream trapped in her throat, she braced herself on her arms and started to crawl across the floor toward the open door.

The soldier held her back. “Here they come.”

A SEAL vaulted out of the blackness into the helicopter, knelt at the edge of the opening, and leaned out. The end of the litter appeared and he grabbed it. Another SEAL piled in and did the same. The litter and Grif were hoisted aboard. The Black Hawk rose. Rachel stared at the opening, an opaque black abyss, and waited, time suspended. Minutes became hours became a lifetime, and her heart stuttered to a standstill.

An arm, two, reached out of the dark and the SEALs each gripped a wrist. They pulled and Max’s body flew inside. She landed on her back and lay still.

Rachel waited, frozen. Max turned, met her eyes, and grinned.

“About time,” Rachel mouthed as her heart started beating again.

“Told you I’d be right behind you,” Max yelled.

“Yes, you did,” Rachel murmured.

Max pushed herself up and bent over Grif. Rachel slumped back beside Amina. The Black Hawk ascended into the night. She didn’t know where she was going, and it didn’t seem to matter. She had no idea what she would do when she arrived. She wasn’t even sure she knew who she would be when she did.

Chapter Sixteen

The helicopter climbed straight up, and the ping of bullets against the metal body faded. Making a wide arc, it banked sharply, turned 180 degrees, and picked up speed. Wind rushed through the cabin and Rachel pulled the blanket tighter. SEALs with machine guns leaned out either side of the helicopter. Delgado knelt with Max over Grif’s litter, switching IV bags and pushing drugs into the line. The dark beyond the dim cabin lights was impenetrable. Rachel couldn’t see where the helicopter was headed, not that she really cared as long as it was far away from the Juba jungle. All that really mattered was that Max was safely aboard. They were all safe now—they had to be. She couldn’t even let herself think they wouldn’t reach their destination after all of this. There must be some fairness in life. An image of the starving Somalis straggling into the aid camp flashed into her mind, and she knew fairness had nothing to do with it. Men perpetrated great crimes and great acts of selfless bravery, and sometimes the reasons for both were incomprehensible. She’d been lucky Max and Grif had reached her. Maybe life was far more random than she’d ever wanted to believe.

She couldn’t tell time in the dark, the engine roar made conversation impossible, and before long she dozed. She snapped awake, adrenaline pouring through her, when the helicopter angled, nose down, and dropped. Now she caught glimpses of light through the portals, pockets of illumination in the inky night that grew brighter with each passing second. She had once thought there was nothing more beautiful than the Manhattan skyline at night, but she knew better now. Wherever they were headed, those scattered constellations of flickering lights were without a doubt the most glorious sight she’d ever witnessed.

“Amina, look!” Rachel grasped Amina’s arm and pointed. “We’re almost—”

“Hey!” Delgado shouted.

Rachel looked over as Max slumped forward. Delgado grabbed her around the waist and lowered her to the floor. Rachel’s heart plummeted.

“What is it? What happened?” she shouted, but no one answered. No one even heard her.

Delgado opened Max’s jacket, looked inside, and began cutting away parts of the sleeves. She tore the wrapper off one of the bandages Rachel had seen Max use time and time again on Grif’s leg and pressed it to Max’s right upper arm. Max was hurt.

Rachel pushed aside the blanket, ducked the restraining arm of the soldier kneeling close by, and scrambled forward a few feet next to Delgado. Max lay motionless, her eyes closed. Max was never still, never unaware. Rachel wanted to shake her and tell her to wake up and explain what the hell she was doing.

Rachel tugged Delgado’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with her?”

Delgado spared her a brief glance and then went back to what she was doing. “…a round…arm. Lost a…blood…idn’t bother…tell anybo…”

The words were muffled but Rachel heard them clearly enough. Max had been shot. The words marched across her brain like cues on a teleprompter, but she was having trouble making sense of it all. Max couldn’t be shot. Max was a doctor, and she was out there to take care of everyone. She wasn’t supposed to get hurt. She wasn’t supposed to—

This was wrong. So wrong.

“Max?” Rachel gripped Max’s leg just above her knee. Max’s fatigues were stiff with dirt and other things, but Rachel didn’t care. She needed to touch her. “Max.”

Max’s eyes fluttered open and roved blankly until they settled on Rachel’s face.

“Hey,” she said, her expression hazy.

“Hey, yourself,” Rachel said, anxiety and fear sharpening her tone.

Max’s grin widened. “Uh-oh. Pissed again. How come?”

The ball of panic crushing the air from Rachel’s lungs started to melt. She reached across Max’s body and found her hand. The fingers that twined through hers were too cold, but still strong. Still Max. “I thought we talked about this. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

“Didn’t, much.” Max turned her head, frowned at Delgado. “What did you give me?”

Delgado grinned. “Just a little something to keep you down. I know you. You’d be trying to get up before we had a chance to take care of you or driving me bat-shit telling me what to do.”

Max’s brows came down even harder. “Damn it. S’nothing. I ought to know—”

“Don’t be such a hard-ass.” Rachel said sharply. “Let someone take care of you.”

Max squinted at Rachel. “You want a shot?”

Delgado’s shoulders shook, but she didn’t say a word.

“You’re an idiot.” Rachel shook her head. Under less terrifying circumstances this playful side of Max would be intriguing. As it was, all she cared about was Max, awake and talking. She was as dizzy as if she’d just downed a bottle of champagne. “And did I mention hardheaded?”

Max’s smile flashed. “Bet you like it just the same.”

“Ask me some other time and I’ll tell you what I like.” Rachel stroked the top of Max’s hand with her thumb. “Crazy hero is not top of my list.”

Max started to say something, but her eyes clouded and lost focus.

“Max?” Rachel turned to Delgado. “Is she all right?”

“Drugs kicking in. You need to go back and sit down.” Delgado wrapped Max’s arm with a bandage and injected medication into the IV line taped above the hand Rachel held. “We’ll be home in just a couple minutes.”

Home. Maybe for them. For her, another stop in a strange land. She stayed until Max’s lids slipped closed before returning to her spot next to Amina.

“What happened? Is she all right?” Amina asked.

“I think so. God, she was shot and didn’t tell anyone. Why is she so damn stubborn?”

Amina laughed. “You ought to be able to answer that. The two of you are very much alike.”

“We most certainly are not.” Rachel glowered. “Max is…well, she takes altogether too much upon herself.”

“I think you have some experience with that.”

“Not like Max,” Rachel said softly, watching Delgado and one of the SEALs move Max’s lax body onto a litter. “She’s many things that I’ll never be.”

*

The helicopter touched down with a jolt, and the roar of the engines died away to a soft whine. The SEALs surrounded Rachel and Amina and hustled them out onto the landing field. Rows of long, low one-story rectangular buildings bordered an expanse of bare land where dozens of helicopters, armored vehicles, and other machines were lined up waiting to march into battle. After weeks in the jungle, the tarmac beneath her feet was as foreign as the bright halogen lights that captured them in a cone of illumination so glaring her eyes watered. Shielding her eyes, her first instinct was to escape into the shadows where she’d be less visible. Where she could see who was coming before they saw her.

She turned back to the helicopter, searching for Max. A half dozen military personnel converged on the open bay of the helicopter and lifted out the two litters bearing Grif and Max and carried them off in another direction. She started after them. Two steps later a hand on her arm stopped her.

Rachel whirled back. A woman about her age, a few inches shorter in blue BDUs and her hair tucked up in a tidy blond bun at the back of her neck, smiled at her. Marine insignia flashed on her collar.

“Ms. Winslow, I’m Major Barbara Newton,” the blonde said. “If you’ll come with me, please.”

“Where are they taking Max—Commander de Milles?”

“The wounded will be transported to the base hospital. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine.”

“How do you know that? You don’t even know what’s wrong with them.”

“If you’ll come with me, please.” Her calm smile never changed. She had to be press corps or public relations. “I’m sure both of you would like a shower and something hot to eat.”

“I’d like to go to the hospital,” Rachel said. She’d had plenty of dealings with the PR people who managed her father’s career—his life, really, public and private. She knew not to yield. “I want to see the officers who rescued us.”

“Let’s get you settled first.”

Amina took Rachel’s arm, pulled her aside, and murmured, “You probably won’t be able to see Max for a while anyhow. If you do what she wants now, you might get away sooner.” She raised her voice. “You’ll feel better if you have something to eat.”

Rachel wondered if the Marine major really thought a hot shower and meal were all that was necessary to erase everything that had happened. Amina was right, though, and clearly a better natural politician than her. She wasn’t going to escape until she at least seemed to be cooperating for a while, and in the meantime, she’d get the information she needed to find Max. She smiled at Newton. “Of course, yes, thank you. I’m sorry, things have just been…hectic.”

“I know, but it’s over now.”

It’s over. Rachel couldn’t help but think how glibly the phrase was applied and how little it pertained. Another lie she wondered if anyone really believed.

“Thanks,” she whispered to Amina and, still holding Amina’s arm, followed Newton’s brisk strides toward a waiting Humvee. Once she and Amina settled in the backseat and Newton got in front, the vehicle left the airfield and drove into a large complex lit by more halogen lights on poles spaced at intervals along streets laid out in rigid grids and lined by dozens upon dozens of the tan metal containers. What she wouldn’t have given for a few of those back at the camp. She stared out the thick, pitted window to avoid thinking about the failed mission and the lost lives.

Military personnel and civilian workers moved about on foot or by transport even though it was the middle of the night. Vehicles passed them, helicopters arrived and departed. After fifteen minutes and several turns, the Humvee stopped in front of another building similar to the ones they’d passed, only much larger. Major Newton turned to face them. “This is the base HQ. We’ll get you settled in your temporary quarters, and once you’re squared away, I’ll take you to meet the base commander.”

Rachel stared at her. She’d been around politicians all her life, and Major Newton was another one who just happened to be wearing a uniform. What she’d really meant was they’d debrief. Of course someone would want a recounting of their experiences in the jungle. Probably quite a few people, and it wouldn’t be quick.

“I want to see Commander de Milles first.”

“We will certainly arrange a visit as soon as possible. Come on, let me take you inside and show you your quarters.”

Newton headed toward the building, leaving Rachel and Amina no choice but to go along. Inside, a hall ran down the center with doors spaced at regular intervals on each side. Newton turned down another corridor and eventually stopped before a closed door with no markings. She opened it, held it ajar, and said to Amina, “Ms. Roos, you’ll be in here. I think you’ll find whatever you need in the way of clothes and other necessities on the bed and in the bathroom.”

Amina glanced at Rachel.

“I won’t go anywhere,” Rachel said.

Amina nodded. “I’ll see you in a little while, then.”

Major Newton led Rachel down the hall past several more closed doors and opened one. “Here you are. I’ll be by in half an hour and we’ll get you both fed.”

“I need a phone to make an international call. Can you—”

“Yes, we’ll take care of that.” Newton smiled. “I’ll see you in a few moments.”

Rachel stepped into the room and Newton closed the door behind her. A dull overhead light revealed the plain furnishings: a single bed, a metal dresser and desk, an open-faced closet slightly deeper than a bookcase with hangers and shelves. She almost laughed. Too bad she hadn’t brought a suitcase. On the bed were a pair of fatigue pants and a shirt without insignia, obviously military issue. A pair of dark leather combat boots stood at attention next to the bed. She lifted the tan shirt and examined it. Cut for a woman and close to her size. The pants, plain desert brown, looked to be her size as well. She wondered just how much they knew about her. The idea was disconcerting, although she shouldn’t be surprised. Of course there was a record of the Red Cross delegation and details of everyone in it. And the military just loved keeping files.

She disliked being caught up in the huge military machine, but the sooner she went along with this part of the plan, the sooner she’d get to see Max. And she would dearly love a shower. A meal might not be bad either. She stepped through a narrow door into an adjoining bathroom, a small tight space ingeniously designed to provide everything that was needed in a compact area. She stripped off her clothes and, not knowing what else to do with them, stuffed them into a trash can by the small sink. She turned on the water and steam filled the tiny bathroom. Naked, she stepped under the spray and started to shake. Her legs buckled, suddenly too weak to support her, and she slid down until she was sitting on the cool metal floor, her knees drawn up and her head back against the stall. Water pulsed over her face and body and ran into the drain beneath her.

Out of nowhere sobs shook her chest. Her mind went mercifully blank. She let the water wash away her tears until strength returned to her limbs, and she pushed herself upright. Mechanically she washed her hair, soaped her body, rinsed, and shut off the water. She wrapped a towel around her chest and found a toothbrush and toothpaste neatly stowed on a shelf above the commode. She brushed her teeth, dried her hair, and dressed in the fatigues that had been left for her. Clean socks and the new pair of boots completed the outfit. Slowly she sat on the side of the bed, flashes of the last day playing through her mind in fast-forward like a movie reel spinning too fast. Rotor wash kicking up clouds of sand. Gunshots and screams, terror and triumph. Through it all, Max was there. Max was hurt, and Rachel didn’t even know how badly. She didn’t know where Max was. She only knew she wasn’t there and everything inside her insisted that she should be.

A knock came on the door. “Ms. Winslow, it’s Major Newton. May I come in?”

Rachel glanced around the room she’d be happy never to see again. The space was too small and, as Newton had just proved, she couldn’t see who might be coming. Quickly she rose and opened the door. “I’d like to see—”

“Come with me, please. As soon as you’ve met with the base commander, I’ll get you information on Commander de Milles.”

“And a phone.”

Commander Newton smiled. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

Rachel sincerely doubted that, but she had no choice but to fall in step.

Chapter Seventeen

Yellow haze in the east. Dawn. Not much longer now. If they were coming, it would be soon. Morning twilight—when shadows hid the truth. There. A momentary flash of movement in the bush. A stealthy predator—cat, wild boar, man. The soft clink of metal sliding on metal. A round chambering, a scope adjusting. Straining to hear. The heavy air muffling sound, distorting direction. Searching, scanning, in front and behind. Tree trunks one upon the other, impenetrable, shielding the enemy. A scream, a shot. Pain. Adrenaline surging. Rachel.

Max’s eyes flew open and she blinked against the searing sun.

“Rachel?” Gasping, chest tight, Max jerked, grabbed for a weapon. Pain lasered down her arm. Where was Rachel? Not the sun, a light. Where?

A shadow loomed over her. A deep voice said, “Easy there, Commander.”

Max squinted and a face came into view. Clean-shaven, ruddy complexion, not the leathery tan of someone who spent days under the sun. Sandy hair, sharp blue eyes, cold and appraising. Tan desert camos. No insignia. No name.

“Where’s Rachel?” Max’s voice cracked and she swallowed against the dryness. “Where’s Grif?”

“Being taken care of,” he said smoothly. He was perched on some kind of stool next to her cot. He looked comfortable, as if he knew her and was just paying a friendly visit.

She’d never seen him before. She turned her head and checked out her surroundings. Her right arm was propped on a pillow by her side. A bandage circled her upper arm. She remembered running in the dark, her hand on Grif’s shoulder, steadying him on the litter. Rachel up ahead, shielded by the SEAL, almost safe. A punch to the arm, the round hitting her, taking her down. An instant of pain, sharp and bright, a surge of adrenaline. Lurching to her feet, the pain blunted by the need to get Rachel and Grif and Amina to safety. Running, breaking free of the grasping jungle, the Black Hawk just ahead, skids lifting into the air. Rachel being pulled aboard, safe. Raising Grif’s litter up into the belly of the bird. The Black Hawk rising—two, three, four feet. Last one on the ground—reaching up, wondering if anyone would see her.

They’d been there, the hands of her comrades, grasping hers, yanking her aboard. They’d seen her, knew her. The pain disappeared beneath the relief of seeing everyone safe. Rachel, Grif, Amina, the SEALs, all accounted for. She’d lain on her back, catching her breath, and found Rachel’s gaze reaching out to her across the space between them. Bright and intense, even in the gloom, a connection as unexpected as it was welcome, like another hand reaching for hers in the dark. She’d held on to that gaze for as long as she could, savoring the sense of not being alone.

Max studied the man who studied her. She was alone now. Hers was the only cot in a ten-by-ten cubicle. An IV bag hung above her left side and a line ran into her arm. She was in a recovery room at the base hospital. Where was everyone else—the medics, the other patients? Where was Rachel?

“Where are the others?”

He smiled, but there was no friendliness in his expression. His eyes remained glacial. “Everyone’s fine.”

“I want a report on Grif. Where’s the medic?”

“How did he come to get wounded?”

“Don’t you know?” Max frowned. “Who are you?”

“How large is the rebel force out there?”

“How would I know?”

“How many were you in contact with?”

Max hesitated, trying to read what he wasn’t saying. She hadn’t slept in two nights, was half-drugged from whatever meds she’d been given, and was mentally exhausted. But she wasn’t so out of it she couldn’t tell this guy was interrogating her. “I saw three, maybe four, as we landed.”

“What about later?”

“We never had contact later.”

“Who ordered the abduction of Rachel Winslow?”

Max stared at him. He wasn’t military, he was something a lot more dangerous. NSA. DOD. CIA. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a friend. And he was interested in Rachel. She studied him the way she studied a target through her scope—coldly, dispassionately. He had just become the enemy. “Who said there was an abduction attempt?”

“The attack on the camp yesterday morning was fortuitous, don’t you think?” He folded his hands over one knee, his tone casual, conversational, as if they were chatting over drinks at the officers’ club.

“Bad timing,” Max said. “It happens out here.”

“Yes, bad timing, especially considering that the plans to evacuate were specifically focused on her.”

“I wondered about that,” Max said. “Why her?”

“Do you believe in luck?”

“No.”

He shook his head. “Just before we arrived, the camp was attacked. If we hadn’t had good tailwinds, we would have been fifteen minutes later, and she’d have been gone. That was lucky, don’t you think?”

“We?” Max laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t notice your ass on the line out there. What desk were you riding while the RPGs were exploding everywhere?”

“Bad luck for the rebels, maybe—they almost pulled it off. Almost as if they knew about our plans.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. You think one of us tipped off the rebels about the mission?”

He smiled, waggled one hand. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think you’re looking for someone to blame for a mission that went south and almost lost you a highly valuable asset.”

The ice in his eyes turned stony. The rest of his face never changed. How’d they all do that, these intelligence guys—gender not an exception—eradicate any sign of emotion? Maybe the agencies preselected for sociopaths, or maybe they trained them to distrust everyone and care about only their own agendas. She’d never really given it much thought, never had to. But she’d seen enough of the spooks to be able to recognize them. They all had the same flat, dead look in their eyes, even when they were smiling.

“You’re looking in the wrong place if you’re looking at any of us,” Max said.

“Really. Well, I’m all ears. Where would you be looking?”

“Well, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Yours is battlefield medicine, but somehow you ended up being the only one remaining behind. Who did you talk to while you were out there?”

“No one.”

“What did you find in the jungle?”

“Nothing.”

“Who is coming for Rachel Winslow?”

Is not was. Max’s jaw clenched. Physical combat wasn’t her thing. She could use a weapon when she needed to, but she was trained to shoot in self-defense. She could defend herself hand-to-hand if she had to, but she didn’t settle her grievances with her fists. But she wanted her hands on his throat every time he mentioned Rachel’s name. “You tell me.”

“We’ll chat again when you’re feeling a little stronger. Maybe your memory will improve.” He smiled the same way someone might before they slid a knife between your ribs. Rising, he adjusted his trousers, brushed the wrinkles from the thighs as if they offended him, and walked out the door.

Max bet everything in his closet was pressed and hanging in exactly the same direction, sorted by color and type. Guys like him never quit—and she needed to figure out what exactly he was after. She stared at the ceiling, replaying the conversation. Somebody’s feet were to the fire, and they were looking to pass the blame onto someone else. Rachel was connected, that much had always been clear. And now someone was needed to take the blame for the fact that she’d almost been captured or killed. Had no-name secret agent implied Rachel might still be in danger? Max’s head pounded. She couldn’t believe anyone really thought one of their team had tipped off the rebels. Everyone knew military installations—hell, all government organizations, period—were as leaky as an old roof in a hurricane. Spies, sympathizers, and counterintelligence agents were everywhere, including inside the base. Plenty of locals came and went, supplying and preparing food, stocking the PX, and selling odd goods at the bazaars that sprang up at dawn and disappeared at dusk. All kinds of information was bought and sold every minute. Electronic communications were just as insecure. Maybe the rebels hit the camp purely by chance, or maybe they’d gotten wind of the Black Hawk extraction somehow and the attack was intentional. Either way, what mattered was that Rachel was safe. For now.

The pain in her arm ratcheted up a notch and she bit back the moan. Rachel was probably on a transport back to the States already. She’d never see her again, but at least she knew Rachel was out of the line of fire. The new ache in her belly had nothing to do with her GSW. Rachel was under her skin, and she wondered how long and how many drinks it would take before she got her out.

No better time to start than now. She lifted her left arm to her face and pulled off the tape securing the IV with her teeth. One quick jerk and the plastic catheter slipped out. Slowly, she sat up and waited for her head to stop spinning. When she was sure she wouldn’t topple over, she stood up and searched for her clothes.

*

Major Barbara Newton led Rachel and Amina to a small cafeteria where workers were busy setting out rows of big stainless steel pans filled with eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, even pancakes on a long steam table. The air was damp and hot and smelled of grease and coffee. Picnic-style tables set end to end divided up the rest of the room. They were mostly empty. A big clock on the wall read three thirty.

“Please,” Major Newton said, “help yourselves. It’s a little early for breakfast but hopefully this will do.”

Amina said, “Thank you.”

Rachel’s stomach lurched at the thought of food, but if she wanted to escape Newton’s surveillance and find out exactly why she hadn’t yet been able to contact her father or Max, she’d have to play along. While she had nothing specific to complain about in the treatment, she was being handled. And she hated being handled.

“Yes, thank you.” Rachel followed Amina to the hot trays and put a scoop of scrambled eggs and several slices of toast on her plate. Coffee, blessed coffee was what she really needed, and she filled a large paper container with what smelled like fresh brew. She followed Amina to a table and sat down across from her. Newton took a cup of coffee and joined them.

“I take it you had no warning the attack was coming,” Newton said.

Amina glanced at Rachel. Something in her eyes said she found all of this very odd too. Rachel took a bite of toast and took her time chewing. “No. We haven’t had any trouble until now.”

“The rebels never made contact previously?”

“Not that we were aware of,” Rachel said, “but then they could easily have come into camp under the guise of being Somali locals and we never would’ve known.”

“I suppose that’s true. You never noticed your security people with any…suspicious individuals?”

Rachel stared at her. “No. Why do you ask?”

Newton smiled in her friendly fashion and went back to her coffee.

“May I call my family soon?” Amina asked.

“Of course,” Newton said. “They’re probably completely unaware of the attack and aren’t worried, but I’m sure they’ll be very happy to hear from you.”

“Yes,” Amina said, “but the supervisors in Mogadishu will wonder if they can’t make contact soon, and news travels quickly.”

“It does, yes,” Newton said softly.

Amina’s color heightened as she held Newton’s gaze.

Rachel asked, “What about Dacar’s family and the others? Who will—”

“We’ll contact your agency in the morning and coordinate that. The families will be advised as soon as possible.”

Amina pushed her plate. “Good. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Newton stood. “If you’re ready, we’ll see about those phone calls.”

Newton led them back to the hall where another female in uniform waited.

“Ms. Roos, Lieutenant Carmichael will take you to the communications room,” Newton said to Amina. “You can call your family from there.”

“Thank you.” Amina glanced at Rachel. “I’ll see you soon?”

Rachel nodded, wanting to get Amina far away from whatever Newton intended for her. “Yes.”

The lieutenant led Amina away, and Rachel folded her arms. “What’s going on?”

“Captain Pettit is waiting to meet you. Right this way.”

Rachel had come to expect nothing from Newton. Maybe she’d learn more from Pettit. “Fine.”

Newton led her through another series of hallways to a door bearing a plain brass placard announcing Captain Edward Pettit, Base CO. Newton held the door open, and as Rachel walked in a big man with cocoa complexion, short-clipped salt-and-pepper hair, and immaculate desert BDUs rose from behind a desk covered with stacks of papers and folders.

“I have Ms. Winslow to see Captain Pettit, Chief.”

“Yes, ma’am. Right this way.”

Newton didn’t follow as the chief petty officer escorted Rachel to another door on the far side of the small anteroom. He rapped and pushed the door open for her. “Ma’am.”

Rachel walked through and the door closed behind her. This room had windows looking out onto a parade ground where armored vehicles and personnel moved about. The man behind the broad metal desk was tall and thin and looked to be in his late fifties. His skin was tanned as if he spent a fair amount of time outside. His sandy hair was regulation short and he wore the same desert BDUs as most of the other personnel.

Rachel focused on the other man in the room—the one who sat beside the desk with his hands clasping his crossed knee. He was not wearing a uniform, although his desert camos resembled those of most of the people Rachel had passed. The first thing she noticed about him was his cool blue eyes. Max’s eyes, as deep blue as a night sky, carried heat Rachel could feel from yards away. This man’s gaze left frost on her skin.

The man behind the desk stood. “Ms. Winslow. Please, have a seat.”

Chapter Eighteen

Rachel held out her hand to Captain Pettit. “Captain, I want to thank you and your troops for everything you did for us. I hope any injuries sustained are not too severe and everyone recovers quickly.”

“No thanks are necessary, Ms. Winslow. We’re out here to protect our citizens and allies.” His handshake was firm, but not overbearing, his palm rough and dry as befit a man who did more than sit behind a desk. His eyes, a light shade of green, held hers for a moment with genuine warmth. “I trust you’ve had everything you need here.”

“Major Newton has been very accommodating.” Rachel glanced at the man sitting next to the captain’s desk. He was watching her but made no move to introduce himself. His gaze, unlike Pettit’s, was chilly and remote, rather like a glacier viewed from a distance. Flat, hard, and cold. She wasn’t intimidated by men who attempted to intimidate her. She’d spent her life around powerful men and women who were experts at the game of silent intimidation, subtle innuendo, and verbal jousting. She smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m Rachel Winslow.”

He rose, slowly and surprisingly gracefully for a man who must have topped six-four. His frame was remarkable in its absolute symmetry and proportion, almost as if he’d been fashioned from an anatomical drawing—shoulders just the right width to balance his tapering torso and narrow but not too narrow hips. Thighs that were neither too bulky nor too thin. His uniform, for that’s what it was despite the absence of identifying patches or insignia, fit him so impeccably she suspected it was tailored for him. Who tailored BDUs? What kind of man needed that kind of control over every small detail?

Rachel held out her hand. Your move.

The handshake felt more like a test than a greeting. His grip was just a little firmer than polite, in case she’d missed his position of power, and he held her hand just a little longer than might have been socially acceptable. The signals were subtle, so if she didn’t know better she might have thought she imagined his show of dominance. She wasn’t imagining his thumb briefly sweeping over her knuckles in what under other circumstances might have been a caress. She kept her eyes on his until he loosened his grip, and then she withdrew her hand.

“Michael Carmody,” he said as if that was all that was necessary.

No rank. No affiliation. Intelligence. Considering where they were, most likely CIA. She turned back to the captain, dismissing Carmody, knowing he wouldn’t like that. Good. She didn’t like being a pawn in anyone’s game, and she was feeling that way more and more every moment.

“There is one thing,” Rachel said. “I haven’t had a chance to find a phone. I’d like to check with the rest of our delegation. Are they here?”

“The medical team has been transported to the French embassy,” Pettit said. “We’re awaiting instructions from the other embassies as to the plans for the rest of the aid team.”

“Everyone is well?” She decided not to inquire about Max and Grif until she got some idea of what these men—no, not these men—what Michael Carmody was after.

“Yes,” Pettit said. “A few minor injuries, nothing serious.”

“Thank goodness.” The murder of the security guards was horrible enough. Rachel was just grateful it hadn’t been worse. “I’m sure you’re very busy, but if you could arrange for me to have access to a phone?”

“Of course,” Captain Pettit said. “If—”

“That will have to wait for just a bit longer,” Michael Carmody said, interrupting the captain without the slightest hint of apology. “Have a seat, Ms. Winslow. I’m sure you must be tired.”

Was he really expecting her to admit to any kind of weakness as he moved his chess pieces onto the field of battle? She could refuse, but that would gain her nothing. Of course she was tired. When the last molecules of adrenaline burned away, she’d probably collapse. A physical standoff was out of the question, and she’d learned from watching those in power that the appearance of cooperation often gave one the advantage in the long game. She sat in the only unoccupied seat in the room, a plain armless wooden chair that faced the captain’s desk. Crossing her legs, she sat back. “I’m sure at some point I’ll feel like sleeping for a day, but thank you, I’m fine.”

“Perhaps,” Carmody said in a slow, nearly hypnotic drawl, “you could tell us what happened at the aid camp.”

A distinct look of displeasure crossed Captain Pettit’s face and was quickly smothered. His distaste for whatever was going on reaffirmed Rachel’s assessment that Carmody was the one behind this not-so-subtle grilling masquerading as a debriefing session. She angled her body slightly so she faced Carmody. “I would have thought you already knew that.”

“It’s always nice to have a firsthand account,” he said with a thin smile.

“I’m afraid mine might be a bit jumbled. A great deal was happening all at once, and I’ll readily admit, I was too frightened at first to pay much attention to the details.” She’d been too damn busy running for her life. “If you gave me some idea what you were interested in?”

“One never knows what’s important, does one?”

She could really come to dislike this man quite a bit, with his superior attitude and faintly sexual appraisal. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I think one does.”

His eyes grew even colder if that was possible. “What time did the attacks start?”

Rachel folded her hands in her lap to hide the involuntary trembling. She didn’t want him to know that thinking about what happened stirred a cascade of adrenaline-fueled fear. Of course, if he was who she thought he was, he would already know that. “I can’t tell you precisely, but near dawn.”

“After dawn or before?”

Dawn. The thunder of explosions catapulting her from sleep into awareness. Her heart racing, her limbs frozen in the first seconds of instinctual panic. Opening her eyes in the dark, breathless with the instant rush of night terror, cornered and helpless in the face of whatever monster was coming for her. She clenched her hands and her nails bit into her palms. She wished she couldn’t remember but knew she’d never be able to forget. “If it matters, I think just before.”

“And no one in the camp appeared to have any concerns that something was about to happen?”

“Not that I was made aware.”

“No increased security? No precautionary measures?”

“As I said, I am unaware of what anyone in the camp might or might not have known.”

“And what about you, Ms. Winslow?” Carmody asked. “Were you aware that an attack was imminent?”

She didn’t know whose side this man was on and she wasn’t about to provide him with ammunition. She didn’t want to lie, either. She’d heard of too many people strangled in their own webs of deception. If she only had some idea what he wanted. Who he wanted—Dacar, Max, her father? Her? Had her father breached security by contacting her the night before? But that made no sense—everyone involved here at Camp Lemonnier knew of it—the security level couldn’t have been that high. And why not inform her? She would have known when the Black Hawks arrived less than ten hours after her father’s call. “I had no idea the attack was coming. If I had, I assure you I would not have gone blithely to sleep and waited for it.”

“How long have you and your team been out there?”

Another matter of record. Nevertheless, telling him what he already knew cost her nothing. “A little over two months.”

“And you’ve had no trouble from rebels?”

“No, none.”

“And what about your supply lines. How often do you see Americans?”

Rachel frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. We don’t see who delivers the supplies—as least, I don’t. The closest road, if you can call it that, ends in the nearest occupied village about twenty miles away. Some of our people make the trip by UTV and pick up our supplies at that point. The bulk of our camp—tents, foodstuffs, medicine, and equipment—was airlifted and set up before I arrived.”

“You’ve never accompanied anyone from your camp to this village?”

“No. It’s usually an all-day trip and I have other duties.”

“And you’ve never seen any Americans accompanying anyone at the camp?”

“No.”

“What about Somali locals? Anyone strike you as unusual or a frequent visitor?”

“Unusual? I don’t think one ever gets used to starving men, women, and children, but no—nothing stands out that I recall.”

“How about men with rifles?”

Rachel smiled. “That has become a little more usual.”

“How much contact did you have with the rebels between the attack and the time of your rescue?”

Rachel stiffened. “None, thankfully.”

“You never saw anyone near the camp?”

She was staring through the tent flap again into the blinding sun, holding an unfamiliar weapon while a man who tried to save her life writhed in pain behind her. The jungle closed in around her, filled with ominous shadows. She saw monsters everywhere. “No, no one.”

“How about Commander de Milles? How often did she go out to meet someone?”

Ice cascaded along Rachel’s nerve endings. The jungle receded, the heavy air lifted, and she could breathe again. Think again. The enemy was no longer faceless. She was looking at him. “Never.”

A carefully arched brow, one she swore had been waxed to a perfect line, twitched upward. “Never? She never left the camp?”

“That’s not what you asked me. Yes, she checked to see that we were not in immediate danger from rebels close to the camp.”

“And how do you know she didn’t meet anyone?”

“I never heard gunfire, and if she had run into rebels, there would have been.”

“Well, that assumes she ran into an enemy.”

“And,” Rachel said, wishing she had that rifle back again, “I know because I followed her.”

Captain Pettit coughed softly.

Carmody stared at her, a flat appraising gaze that looked a lot like the way a snake regarded a mouse right before it struck. “You followed her into the jungle. Where you could have run into landmines or rebel forces?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. But yes, I followed her.”

“That was very brave of you.”

“What exactly do you think happened out there, Agent Carmody?” Rachel said, tired of his games.

“I think you’re very lucky to be alive,” he said softly.

“I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Commander de Milles and the others.” She shifted her attention from Carmody and faced Pettit. “I’d like to use the phone now, and I’d like to see Commander de Milles and Lieutenant Griffin. I owe them my life and I’d like to thank them personally.”

“I’ll see that you’re given privacy for your call,” Captain Pettit said.

Rachel rose, pleased that her legs were not shaking. “Thank you.”

Pettit reached for a phone on his desk. “Chief, could you please take Ms. Winslow to the com room.” Pettit hung up and addressed Rachel. “When you’re finished, someone will escort you to the hospital.”

“Thank you once again, Captain, for all you and your troops have done for me and my team.” Rachel let her gaze pass over Carmody, who stared back, before walking to the door.

The chief petty officer led her through another series of hallways into a large room where half a dozen people sat in front of computer terminals, large maps, and monitors showing aerial views of what looked like miles of uninhabited jungle and desert. The detail of objects on the ground was startling—she could practically count the branches on some of the trees. She’d been out there somewhere just hours before. She wondered if the people in this room had been able to see her.

“This way, ma’am.” The chief took her to a small room separated from the larger one by a plain wooden door in a windowless wall. The room held a desk, shelves with stacks of papers and field manuals, and a landline.

“You can call direct on that, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Chief. And how might I get to the hospital?”

“I’ll arrange for a driver to wait out front, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He left, shutting the door behind him, and Rachel slumped onto the metal chair behind the desk. She stared at the phone and wondered how secure it might be. Strange, she felt less safe here surrounded by those she was supposed to trust to keep her safe than she had in the jungle with only Max between her and all the demons that surrounded them. Max. Now Max might be in danger, maybe Grif too. A wave of hot fury washed through her. She reached for the phone and dialed her father’s direct number. He always had his calls forwarded to his cell no matter where he might be. She needed information, and he was never out of the loop. She couldn’t fight an enemy she couldn’t recognize, and it was her turn to stand between Max and whatever lurked in the shadows.

Chapter Nineteen

“How’s Grif?” Max asked as Tim McCullough, the corpsman on duty who’d walked in while she was hunting for her clothes, taped a square of gauze over her IV site.

“They just finished working on him a couple minutes ago.” The red-haired, blue-eyed, fresh-faced twenty-year-old looked like he belonged on the porch of a fraternity house somewhere, drinking beer and bothering girls, not out here putting together the maimed and the mutilated. His eyes when they met hers were the age of someone who’d already seen too much and knew there was worse to come. “You ought to stay here for a couple more doses of IV antibiotics.”

“Just give me the pills.” She could tell when she moved her arm the wound was just soft tissue. Painful but not a long-term problem. She wanted out of the hospital so she could find Rachel, or at least find someone who would know if she was safe somewhere, and she wanted out from under prying eyes and questions. Her nameless friend from the morning would be back, and before she answered any more questions, she wanted to talk to the other team members and find out what the hell was going on. She couldn’t do any of that lying on her back with an IV line running into her arm. “And tell the AOD I’ll take full responsibility.”

McCullough barked out a laugh. “Fuck that. If I say you’re good to go, he won’t argue. If I was you, I’d want out of here too. Just take the fucking pills.”

“Thanks. I will.” Her stomach tightened. She didn’t remember the last half of the flight back, but she remembered taking fire. “Did they bring any of the civilians in here?”

“No. You and Grif were the only casualties from that run. He’s still in recovery from the leg wash out. Probably won’t be awake for a while.”

Max exhaled slowly. “How are the guys from earlier?”

“Everything was pretty minor—Burns will be heading home for shoulder reconstruction. The others will recoup here for a few days and be back on active in a week or so.”

“Good.” She was just as glad Grif wouldn’t be talking for a while. Maybe by the time he came around, whoever had sent her visitor would have gotten what they wanted and called off their dogs. “What was the name of the guy who was in here earlier?”

McCullough shook his head. “He didn’t say.”

“Who brought him?”

Another head shake. “He just walked in. Had a vehicle out front and a base pass from the CO. Said he wanted to talk to you in private.”

“Did he say anything about Grif?”

“Wanted a sit rep. We gave it to him. Same I just gave you.”

“Okay. Do me a favor, if he comes back to see Grif, call me.”

“I don’t think you want to get in the middle of that.”

Max smiled. “Yeah, but I do. Where’s Grif now?”

“I’ll check.”

Max pulled on the clean BDUs McCullough had left on the bed and had just managed to get the fly buttoned when he returned.

“Grif’s pretty zoned. Like I said, he won’t know you were there.”

“Yeah,” Max said, “he will.”

McCullough shrugged. “Come on.”

Grif looked disconcertingly vulnerable with the tubes and lines attaching him to monitors and IVs. She gripped his hand and leaned close. “Hey, Grif, it’s Deuce. You’re back at base, in the hospital. You’re doing fine.” She wondered when he’d be transported to one of the regional hospitals. A wave of loneliness caught her by surprise. Rachel was already gone, and soon Grif would be too. She cleared her throat. “Oh, and your equipment all checks out. Laurie will be happy about that. Just make sure you get your ass out of bed and get through rehab quick so you can get home where you belong.” She released his hand and straightened. “See you, buddy.”

She walked out just as the sun came up. She’d been right the night before. By dawn, it was all over.

*

“Dad, it’s me.”

“I was informed you were all right.”

Rachel almost laughed. She supposed she was all right, by all ordinary criteria. Physically, she was bruised and scraped and scratched and sore, but nothing that wouldn’t mend with some sleep, good food, and a week or so of anti-inflammatories. Somewhere inside, though, she was bleeding. That would mend too, but she wondered about the scars. When she looked in Max’s eyes, she realized the shadows she saw were really scars. “I am. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“We’ve been in touch with the embassy. Arrangements are being made for your transport stateside. I imagine we can get you headed home in the next twenty-four hours.” He paused and when Rachel didn’t reply went on with the merest hint of irritation. “Is there something else you need?”

“What? No. I don’t need anything.” Home. She immediately thought of her tent and Amina sleeping across from her. Wasn’t home simply the place where you felt most yourself? She tried to imagine herself in her condo in Manhattan, making fundraising calls and organizing meetings with donors, or at a political gathering disguised as a dinner party at her parents’ mansion in Falls Creek, accompanied by a beautiful woman with all the right breeding and all the right credentials who was looking for just the right wife. Those places seemed more like a foreign country to her than the stark, arid plains and dense, overpowering jungles of Somalia ever had. The people here—Amina, Grif, Max—knew her better than anyone from her past. “Dad. I’m not leaving right away.”

“What? You can’t be thinking about returning to the aid camp. From the reports, it’s been pretty much demolished and that whole area is a rebel stronghold.”

“No, I’m not thinking about going back,” she said, and the words hurt. She’d accomplished something there, touched lives, made a difference. Now it was all lost. But that didn’t mean her conviction had been shattered. If anything, her desire to bring resources to those who had none was even stronger. “I want to meet with the organization directors in Mogadishu, and I need to see that the other members of the team are all taken care of.”

“Rachel,” he said in that flat voice he used when he’d made a decision and didn’t see any point in further discussion, “there are certain circumstances of which you’re unaware—”

“I think I know what some of those circumstances are,” she said, thinking of Carmody’s interrogation. She suspected some kind of interagency power struggle was going on, and she’d ended up in the middle of it either by virtue of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or because she was her father’s daughter. “I’d be happy if you filled me in so I’m not guessing.”

“I’m afraid that’s something I can’t go into right now. Suffice it to say your continued presence in the area is not a good idea.”

“Unless I’m given a credible reason to leave that doesn’t have to do with some kind of political agenda, I’m staying.”

“I really don’t think it’s wise for you to linger. That entire region is not nearly as stable as you might think.”

She did laugh then, a hollow sound that almost hurt. “Dad. I think I know that better than most. I just saw three of my friends murdered yesterday morning.”

“I’m…sorry you had to witness that. Obviously the plan to get you out was not as well-executed as it should have been. Believe me, we’re looking into that.”

“Dad, do you know someone by the name of Carmody?”

“Should I?”

“I think so.” She doubted Carmody was her father’s man—he’d never have interrogated her the way he did. So if he wasn’t on her father’s side, maybe he was against him. She’d probably already said too much on a line she couldn’t trust was secure. “He’s been around.”

“Has he.” Her father’s voice had grown cold, and she could see the diamond edge to his eyes as he considered all the ramifications of a stranger probing into an operation involving not only his daughter, but security at the major US base in the region.

“I spoke with him briefly earlier.”

“Interesting. And perhaps another reason for you to reconsider your stay.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine. Could you put in a word for me with Captain Pettit for transport and that sort of thing?”

“That’s already taken care of, but if you insist on staying, I’ll assign security to you. They can drive you and see to anything else you might need. Someone will be there before the end of the day.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Rachel, there are times when I know better than you.”

“Are there any times when you don’t?”

He sighed. “I’d hoped this trip and a firsthand look at the realities of these situations would temper your enthusiasm, if not your stubborn streak. I can see that it hasn’t.”

“No,” she said softly, thinking of the hours in the foxhole, peering into the dark—looking where she once would rather have looked away. She’d been changed, but not in the way he’d hoped. “I need to stay.”

“Then I’m afraid you don’t have any choice. If you’re staying, you’ll have protection. Otherwise, you’ll be on a plane this afternoon.”

He knew she’d accept. They’d played this game all her life. She had no choice and he knew it. She didn’t know the area, she didn’t have any personal resources readily available, and she couldn’t disregard safety issues. She wasn’t foolhardy about her own well-being, and she wouldn’t put her father and others in political jeopardy by making herself a target, even though she seriously doubted she was in danger. The best she could do was accept his compromise. All things considered, he was giving in without as much of a fight as she might have expected. “All right.”

He paused. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I love you. Say hi to Mother for me. Tell her I love her.”

“Yes. Well. See that you take care of yourself.”

“I will,” she whispered.

The line went dead and she slowly set down the receiver.

Her vision blurred. She was so very tired. All the false energy, and probably false courage, the adrenaline had provided had burned away now that she was safe. Safe was relative, she supposed, but at least no one was likely to shoot her here. The idea of curling up under the covers and closing her eyes was incredibly appealing, except she feared when she closed her eyes she’d be back in that hot humid tent, listening for the sounds of someone coming to kill her. She straightened and rubbed her tired eyes. Her weary, bruised, and battered mind could form only one thought. She wanted to see Max. With the world coming apart around her, Max was the only island of sanity.

Chapter Twenty

“Are you sure about this, ma’am?” the driver asked.

Rachel stared at the sand-colored metal box and tried to imagine living inside it. She guessed it to be about twenty feet long—it would fit inside her family’s garage with room to spare for a few of their five cars. Two wooden steps without a railing led up to a single door with a shaded Plexiglas window. At about the midpoint of the long side, another window was filled by the rear end of an air-conditioning unit extending out several inches. The roof was flat. It looked like every other metal box in row after row of metal boxes lined up along dirt lanes just wide enough for two Humvees to pass in opposite directions. The stenciled black letters C-19 were the only things distinguishing it from the others. She swallowed. “Yes.”

“Would you like me to wait?”

She studied her surroundings through the front and back windows of the Humvee. She could maneuver the streets of an unfamiliar city with an unerring sixth sense of direction, but left alone in this repetitive maze she might just wander forever. “Where are we, exactly?”

“At the northeast corner of CLUville—that’s what we call this part of the base.”

“And where would headquarters be?”

He pointed forward. “About twenty, twenty-five minutes in that direction if you’re a brisk walker and don’t mind the heat.”

“I’ll be fine. There’s no need for you to wait.”

He squinted past her at the living unit. “Yes, ma’am.”

He sounded about as uncertain as she felt and his indecision was enough to spur her out of the vehicle. She needed to do this. “Thank you again for the ride.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She took a few steps away and paused, waiting for him to drive away. He hesitated, nodded to her, and finally left. Turning, she climbed the two stairs and rapped on the door. Nothing happened.

She didn’t really want to call attention to herself since technically she wasn’t supposed to be wandering around the base. When she looked behind her, she was alone. She knocked again. “Max? Max, it’s Rachel.”

Please, be here. I don’t know where else to look.

The sun beat down on the back of her neck, heating her already too-sensitive skin. She’d managed over two months in-country without getting a bad burn, but one day standing guard while Max dug the foxhole had put an end to all her care. The sunburn was a not-so-welcome reminder of where she’d been at this time the day before. She’d have to think about it sometime, just not right now. Right now she’d like very much to forget.

“Max, please. If you’re there—”

The door inched open and she stepped down to the bottom step to make room for it to swing by her. Max stood in the doorway in olive-green boxers and a matching T-shirt. A clean white bandage circled her right upper arm. Her hair was damp and wavier than Rachael expected, clinging to her neck in lazy curls that made her look sexy and unexpectedly carefree. Her long, lean legs were tanned, another surprise. Her feet were bare. A darker green oval between her small breasts indicated a spot she’d missed drying after her shower or maybe a trickle of sweat that had collected in the shallow valley in the center of her chest. Rachel had to drag her gaze away from that spot and the image of the soft curves of flesh on either side. When she looked up, Max’s eyes sparked with a quick glimmer of heat and something darker. Something hungry.

“I thought you’d left,” Max said.

“I didn’t.” Rachel’s heart pounded wildly. “I thought you were in the hospital.”

“I was. How did you find me?”

“I badgered the medic to tell me where you probably were.”

Max smiled wryly. “Did you see Grif?”

“I asked—he was still asleep.”

“Yeah.” Max sighed and ran a hand through her hair, ruffling it further. “You okay?”

“Not so much, really.” Rachel had never found asking for anything easy, but any pretense of being fine after all that had happened was wasted on Max. She had to know better. “Can I come in?”

Rachel’s vulnerability caught Max by surprise and her first impulse was to pull Rachel inside and keep her safe. But they weren’t outside the wire now and things were a lot more complicated. Rachel had faint circles below her eyes and a weariness in their depths Max recognized and wished she didn’t. Her face was pale, except for streaks of sunburn over the arch of her cheekbones and down her neck. Her auburn hair shimmered with gold highlights, bits of sunlight trapped in the thick strands that made Max want to bury her fingers there to warm them. The khaki fatigues fit her surprisingly well, almost naturally, and when she squinted against the sun, tiny lines radiated out from the corners of her eyes. She was more beautiful even than Max remembered.

“I can’t vouch for my housekeeping.”

Rachel shaded her eyes. “Is it any cooler in there than it is out here?”

“Maybe ten degrees.”

“Sounds like heaven.”

Max stepped back and Rachel climbed into her CLU. Other than Grif stopping by now and then for a quick drink after a duty shift, she’d never had a visitor. She saw it as Rachel must see it—stark and impersonal and empty. A lot like her inside.

“This is my bunk down here.” She led the way past CC’s neatly made rack with the shelf above that held family photos and mementos from home to her own bare cubicle. She didn’t have any photos on the wall or other items from another life lying around. She smoothed the wrinkled blanket on the bed and kicked a pair of fatigue pants into the corner. An open bottle of whiskey sat on the floor, and since there wasn’t much to do about that, she just left it there. She pointed to the single chair heaped with clothes. “Sorry. Not much in the way of accommodations.”

“This is fine.” Rachel stopped her in the midst of moving the pile. “Really. Any place that isn’t crawling with bugs where I’m not likely to be shot at works just fine for me. Do you mind if I just sit on your bed?”

“No,” Max said, trying to figure out where she should go when Rachel sat on one end of her bed. Finally she just sat down beside her.

“How is your arm?” Rachel asked.

“Fine.”

“I was surprised they let you out so soon.”

Max grinned the grin Rachel recognized, just a little cocky and just a little bad. Rachel laughed and the bubble of happiness eased some of the ache in her chest. “Ah, I see now. They didn’t let you do anything. You strong-armed—”

“Come on, it’s not quite that bad,” Max said. “We have kind of a treat ’em and street ’em attitude around here. Nobody wants to be laid up in a hospital tent, and unless an injury is so severe it’s going to require prolonged recovery and rehab, everybody is just as happy getting back to duty.”

Back to duty, as if the danger and risk were just a normal part of life out here. For Max, the day before had probably been close to routine. What for Rachel would be a lifelong horrific memory was only one of hundreds of horrors that Max had seen. She touched Max’s arm. “When will you fly again?”

“Maybe never, this time around. I’m due to ship back to the States in a few days, at least I was. I’m not so sure right now.”

“Why?” Rachel asked.

Max hesitated, and that was unlike her. Rachel had never known her to be anything but straightforward. She took a wild guess. “This have anything to do with someone named Carmody?”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Does he happen to be early forties, square top, cold eyes, definitely unfriendly?”

“You forgot the snake in the grass part.”

“Yeah, that’s him. He bother you?” Max’s tone was dark and tinged with belligerence.

“Bother me.” Rachel smiled. For a moment, Max reminded her of a high school girlfriend wanting to protect her from the unwanted advances of the boys on the football team. A silly thought, but the idea pleased her. “Yes, I think you could definitely say that. Did he bother you too?”

As if reading her mind, Max laughed and the darkness left her eyes. “Quite a bit.”

Rachel sighed. She wished Carmody was as harmless as an adolescent boy with too much testosterone and an overinflated ego. Carmody wasn’t a nuisance, he was dangerous. “What do you think’s going on?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t give much away.” Max took her hand. “It shouldn’t matter too much to you, though. You’re a civilian, and I imagine you’ll be heading home pretty soon.”

“No, not right away.” Rachel slid her fingers between Max’s, the connection so natural she almost didn’t realize she’d done it. “I want to go to our headquarters in Mogadishu. I need to follow up with the team to make sure everyone’s all right.”

Max frowned. “You know, it’s possible that raid yesterday was aimed at you. Mog is still a pretty rough place. Maybe you should rethink that trip.”

“I can’t imagine why I would have been a target. I’ve been out there for weeks, and no one paid me the slightest attention.”

“You don’t know that. And these groups are unpredictable—you never know what they have planned.”

“I won’t take chances,” Rachel said, appreciating Max’s concern. Max, unlike her father, hadn’t told her what to do, even though she could see Max was worried. “I promise.”

“A lot of people seem to be interested in you.” Max rested their joined hands on her bare knee. “Who are you, Rachel?”

Rachel met Max’s steady gaze. Her eyes were so blue, so easy to fall into. Rachel caught her breath. Who was she? That was the question, wasn’t it? To her father she was a stubborn, problematic daughter who wouldn’t embrace the party line. To her mother she was the disappointing daughter who rejected her mother’s values and refused to follow in her footsteps. To the women who purported to desire her, she was either a trophy or a stepping stone. Only out here had she’d ever felt like herself. Only Max had ever seen her. “You know who I am, don’t you, Max?”

“Well, I know certain things,” Max said, feeling the weight of every word. Knowing somehow what she said mattered more than anything she’d ever said to anyone. The intensity in Rachel’s gaze was almost a plea. “I know you’re not afraid to face danger. I know you’re stubborn and independent. I know you’re loyal to your friends and committed to your mission. And I know—” Max paused, searching for the lines she shouldn’t cross. She was tired but she’d only had one drink before she’d decided she’d rather think about Rachel than forget her, and she knew what she was saying. What she wanted to say. “I know you’re really beautiful. I especially like the way the green of your eyes changes when you’re angry or when you’re—” She stopped. Maybe that line wasn’t hers to draw.

“Or what?” Rachel asked. “When I’m what, Max?”

The whir of the air-conditioning unit sounded like the rasp of insects in the underbrush. The CLU was dim, the air heavy, like twilight in the jungle. They might have been a hundred miles away from civilization, just the two of them, alone, in a timeless, ageless world.

Rachel’s lips parted and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. Her gaze held Max’s and her fingers lightly brushed the bare skin of Max’s thigh. “Max? Are they changing color now?”

“Yes.”

“And you know why, don’t you,” Rachel whispered.

Max swallowed. Her skin flamed where Rachel’s fingers rested and heat scorched along her spine and simmered in the pit of her stomach. Her fingertips, her lips, her nipples tingled. She was breathing too fast. Overdrive. Overload.

“I need to kiss you.”

Rachel’s lips lifted at the corners and the forest green of her eyes glinted with gold warmer than sunlight. “Do you?”

Max leaned closer until her mouth was only millimeters from Rachel’s. “So bad, or else…”

“Or…?”

“Certain parts of me might burst into flames.”

Rachel’s fingertips slid beneath the lower edge of Max’s boxers. Her palm pressed into Max’s thigh. Her chest brushed Max’s bare upper arm. Her lips skimmed over Max’s jaw. “You’re not supposed to incinerate until after you kiss me.”

“Kissing you won’t burn me up.” Max’s chest felt as if a grenade was about to go off inside. “I think…” She gasped. She was so hot everywhere. So hot, so parched, as scorched as the land that had seared her soul. Rachel’s lips were so cool against her skin. “I think kissing you will be like falling into cool clear water.”

“Find out,” Rachel murmured.

Max groaned softly and covered Rachel’s mouth with hers. Rachel leaned into her and their lips reformed against one another, reshaping, fitting together, exchanging softness for softness. The tip of Rachel’s tongue skated over the surface of Max’s lower lip and was gone too soon. Max slid her palm around the back of Rachel’s neck and held her still, changing the angle of her kiss, tugging Rachel’s lower lip between hers, savoring the silky fullness between her teeth.

Rachel moaned softly and pressed closer until Max fell back on one elbow and pulled Rachel down with her. Rachel sprawled across her chest, both of them with their feet still on the floor, hands and mouths grasping and seeking. Rachel half crawled on top of her and Max groaned.

Rachel gasped and tried to sit up. “Oh God, your arm. I forgot about your arm!”

“My arm’s perfect.” Max pulled Rachel’s mouth back to hers. She’d been right. Kissing Rachel was like sliding naked into a crystal-clear mountain lake, brisk and refreshing and incredibly exciting. Every cell vibrated with energy, her nerve endings tingled. She felt clean and alive in places she hadn’t realized had been numb and lifeless. She wanted to be naked. She wanted Rachel on top of her, under her, sliding over her like water cascading down a mountainside. She wanted to drown in her.

Rachel pushed up Max’s T-shirt and stroked her stomach, making Max’s hips jerk and her clitoris tense beneath the thin cotton of her boxers. Rachel took her time exploring Max’s body, slowly edging the T-shirt up to the undersides of her breasts, stroking her fingers up and down the center of her belly. Max struggled to stay still, to let her look and touch, to expose what she kept hidden. When Rachel’s thumb brushed under the cotton and over her breast, she shuddered.

“Rachel, I can’t—”

“God, you have a beautiful body.” Rachel’s gaze was locked on Max’s body, her expression fierce. When she looked up, the hunger in her eyes stole Max’s breath. “I can’t believe how amazing you are. I want to see you naked.”

“Rachel…”

“I know.” Rachel’s eyes burned into hers. “It’s crazy. I know. I don’t do this sort of thing—no, that’s a lie, I do, I have. But never like this. God, Max. I’ve never wanted to touch anyone so much.”

“It’s—”

Rachel pressed her fingers to Max’s mouth. “I don’t care what it is. I don’t care if it’s the aftermath of stress or the reaffirmation of life or laughing in the face of evil. I don’t care about any of that. I think you’re gorgeous and sexy and strong. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited in my life. Don’t stop kissing me.”

“I won’t.” Max couldn’t stop. If she pushed Rachel away, the last struggling remnant of her soul would wither and she would be nothing but a shell. She dragged Rachel all the way onto the bed until they faced each other on the rough military-issue blanket, heart to heart, body to body. She kissed her. “I won’t stop until you tell me to.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Rachel couldn’t bear to lose touch with Max’s lips. Max’s mouth was as captivating as her eyes—intense and commanding and exquisitely gentle. She felt as if she’d never been kissed before. She hadn’t. Not like this. Not when the merest brush of flesh on flesh drove a spike of pleasure into her depths, sharp and bright and brilliant. She traced the sweep of Max’s cheekbones with her fingertips and wove her fingers through her hair. Max was the heat she hadn’t known she wanted—the flame that pushed back the dark. She arched against her, craving the pressure of Max’s body against her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Max was strong, all hard muscle and bone, and breathtakingly tender, her hands and mouth gliding over Rachel’s face in soft benediction. Max and only Max had ever wanted to see her, know her, touch her. Closer. More. Her clothes were in the way. Max’s clothes were in the way. She wanted to climb inside her. She wanted Max inside her. She couldn’t get her breath.

“You feel right.” Max stroked Rachel’s throat and slid one hand lower, lightly skimming over Rachel’s breasts to her waist. “Holding you feels right.”

“Yes. No. Not enough,” Rachel gasped. “I want your hands on me everywhere. God, I’m losing my mind.”

Max opened the first button on Rachel’s shirt and slipped her hand inside. “Maybe you are. But if you are, so am I.”

Rachel grinned. “Good. Because I don’t want to be crazy without you.”

Max laughed and nipped at Rachel’s chin. She kissed her throat and teased her fingertips beneath the cotton stretched tight across Rachel’s breasts, circling closer to Rachel’s nipple with each stroke. “We might want to slow down just a little, though.”

“Why? I can’t think of a single reason.” Rachel pulled Max on top of her and arched when Max’s thigh came to rest between hers. She covered the hand Max had slipped under her plain dark military-issue bra and pressed Max’s fingers into her breast. The pressure made her want to come and for a second her mind blanked. She groaned and her vision swam. She was too close, too soon. “I can’t think at all.”

Max braced herself on her good arm and looked down into Rachel’s eyes. “All those things you said earlier. About stress and laughing at death and all that. I don’t want you to regret—”

“Do you always worry so much when you go to bed with a woman?”

“No, but this isn’t like that.”

Rachel stroked Max’s face. “I know. I don’t know what it is, exactly. But I know it’s like nothing else.”

“I feel like I’ve never touched a woman before,” Max whispered.

Rachel jolted, her clitoris swelling so fast she nearly came. “And you think I could stop now?” She yanked Max’s mouth back to hers.

Max’s kiss was like her—strong and gentle, slow and deep, a kiss that touched her in places where nothing ever had. Rachel pushed both hands under Max’s T-shirt and caressed her back, smoothing her palms over the columns of muscle and bone and smooth skin. Even with her eyes closed, she could see Max with every stroke. Sensation was everywhere—immeasurable pleasure, wonder, and fearsome awe. She kissed Max’s throat, tasted her—clean and vital. “What is it? This power you have over me?”

Max shook her head. “No. Not me.” She rested her forehead on Rachel’s. “It’s you. I can feel you inside me, filling up all the empty places. I don’t want to stop.”

“Then don’t.” Rachel wrapped her calf over Max’s leg. Max’s eyes were so deep and so dark Rachel should have been afraid of getting lost in them, but she wasn’t. This was a darkness that thrilled her. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Make love to me, Max.”

Max opened the rest of the buttons on Rachel’s shirt, parted the fabric, and rubbed her cheek over the valley between her breasts. Rachel’s nipples tightened beneath the material that restrained her breasts. Her breasts ached and she clasped Max’s head, guiding her to the spot where her nipple peaked. “Please.”

Max cupped her breast, long fingers closing around her sensitized flesh, squeezing, spearing the pleasure into her core. Rachel moaned. Never like this. Never. Max’s teeth closed around her nipple, tugging it through the fabric. Lights burst behind Rachel’s closed lids. Her heart pounded. Her breath fled. She stiffened, gasped. Panic raced through her. Explosions, screams in the dark.

“Oh my God!” Rachel jerked away.

“Rachel?” Max raised her head. “What just happened?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Rachel clung to Max and buried her face in the curve of her neck. “That was—God. For a second, I was back there. The explosions, the blood, the…dead. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, what are you apologizing for?” Max held her tightly and rolled onto her side, keeping Rachel close against her. She kissed her temple and wrapped one leg over Rachel’s hips to pull her into the cradle of her body. “I see them too sometimes. Most times.”

Rachel shuddered. “How do you make it stop?”

“You don’t. At least I haven’t.” Max ran her hands up and down Rachel’s back, stroking and stroking, not knowing what else to do. “Sometimes I drink. Well, a lot of times I drink.”

Rachel raised her head. “Does it help?”

Max grimaced. “No. But it’s better than walking outside the wire and waiting for an RPG to fall on my head.”

Rachel pushed herself up and ran her hands through her hair. “Have you tried that too?”

Max hesitated. They’d already gone so far past anything she’d ever shared with anyone, physically and in every other way. But this—this was her secret torment. Her secret shame. Hers was a false bravery, born not of valor but out of a need to prove her own worth. She couldn’t even honor their sacrifice with true courage. If Rachel knew she was no warrior but a reluctant participant haunted by nightmares and regret, what would she think? And if she didn’t tell her, everything between them would be a lie. “A few times, yeah. Tempting fate, maybe. I don’t know, maybe I thought I didn’t deserve to still be around when so many weren’t.”

“Oh, Max.” Rachel sighed and stroked her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Listen, I’m okay. At least no worse than anyone else. And you—you have nothing to be ashamed about.” Max sat up and clasped Rachel’s hand. “What happened out there, you weren’t ready for that. No one ever is, but at least we’re military. We train for it, we know it might be coming, we have more time to prepare. Now you’re exhausted, stressed, and in mourning for those you lost. I’d be surprised if you weren’t having flashbacks.” She squeezed Rachel’s fingers. “When you’re home, if it keeps up, you can talk to someone. Okay?”

“Is that the doctor saying Do as I say or do you actually take your own advice?”

Max glanced at the half-empty bottle on the floor. “Not all the time.”

“Well,” Rachel said, her voice sounding a little stronger, “I will take your advice when I get home. For now, I wouldn’t mind a little of your remedy.”

Max laughed and reached for the bottle. She uncapped it and handed it to Rachel. “Sorry I don’t have any—”

Rachel took the bottle, swallowed a healthy amount, and coughed violently, tears forming in her eyes. “Yep, just as vile as I remember.” She handed it back to Max. “Thanks. I think.”

Max set the bottle down and slipped an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Better?”

Rachel caressed Max’s thigh and rested her palm on the inside of her bare leg. A faint scar ran across the muscle, doing nothing to mar the beauty. “You’ve been taking care of me for the last two days. I appreciate it.”

“I don’t want your gratitude.” Max cupped her face. “I’d like to kiss you again.”

“Yes,” Rachel whispered, “I’d like that very much.”

Max’s kiss was a slow, lingering kiss that feathered along the torn and tattered edges of Rachel’s soul, soothing her, comforting her, kindling the fire again. Rachel gripped Max’s shoulders and kissed her harder, delving deeper, pressing her breasts to Max’s, sliding a leg over Max’s hips until she straddled her in the middle of Max’s bed. “I want you.”

Max cupped Rachel’s ass and pulled her tight against her hard abdomen. Rachel rolled her hips and felt her control fray. When she would have pulled back with anyone else, she thrust harder, willing her body to explode. Max pushed both hands under her shirt and clasped her breasts, and Rachel threw back her head and laughed. “You do things to me with all my clothes on I’ve never felt naked.”

Max kissed between her breasts. “I’d just as soon have you naked.”

“God, yes.” Rachel stripped off her shirt, pulled off her bra, and threw them onto the floor behind them. She pressed her breasts to Max’s face. “Put your mouth on me.”

Max lifted Rachel’s breasts in her hands and sucked her nipple into her mouth. Rachel’s clitoris pulsed and she rocked harder against Max’s belly. “Like that. Just. Like. That.”

“You like that,” Max said, her voice low and self-satisfied.

“Oh yes.”

Max’s fingers closed over her other nipple, squeezing one as her mouth tugged the other.

Light exploded behind Rachel’s eyelids, bright bursts of white and red and yellow, and she wasn’t afraid. The dark gave way to light and pleasure rolled through her. “Max. Max…”

Max gripped Rachel’s hips and pulled her tighter against her body, her mouth and fingers working in time to Rachel’s thrusts. Rachel clenched her fists in Max’s hair and watched Max make her explode. “Oh my God.”

Max pressed her cheek to Rachel’s breast and held her close until her shudders stopped. When Rachel collapsed, she kissed her. “You’re so beautiful I think my heart stopped.”

Rachel couldn’t move. She was completely demolished. “My God. I’ve never…I didn’t…I have never come like that in my life.”

Max laughed. “I said you were amazing.”

“I think you did all the work,” Rachel said, her words lazy and slow.

“Believe me, that wasn’t work.”

Rachel licked a drop of sweat from Max’s throat. She tasted salty and powerful. She wanted her again. She was losing her sanity here. “All the same, you have no idea what you do to me.”

Max kissed her. “I think I might a little. Because you…you make me feel like a god.”

Rachel braced her hands on Max’s shoulders and pushed herself up until they were eye to eye. “I might’ve called you God there a time or two—okay, maybe ten—but don’t let it go to your head.”

Max nipped at Rachel’s chin and kissed her again. “You can’t put the genie back in the bottle.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put it back.” Rachel kissed her hard. She was half-naked, totally exposed in every way, and incredibly alive. Max had been the first to see her as she was, the first to touch her where it mattered. The last thing she wanted was to undo any of it. Desire rose again, hot and hard and fast. “I want to do it again. I want you.”

“Let’s start with the getting you naked part.” Max reached for the button on Rachel’s pants.

“Not just yet.” Rachel shifted onto her knees and pushed Max back onto the bed. She grabbed the bottom of Max’s T-shirt and shoved it up over her breasts. She wore nothing under the shirt. Her breasts were small and firm with perfectly centered pale pink nipples. Rachel’s throat went dry and she tugged at the shirt while she stared. “Off.”

Max grabbed the bottom and had it halfway off when a sharp rap on the metal frame ricocheted through the space. Max froze.

A deep male voice called, “Commander de Milles. Open up, please.”

Max half sat up. “Rachel, stay back here.”

“Why? Who is it?” Rachel whispered.

Max gripped her around the waist and moved her aside as if she weighed nothing. “Get dressed.”

Suddenly chilled, Rachel fumbled for the bra and shirt as Max yanked on a pair of pants and shoved her feet barefoot into her boots. Max glanced down, saw that Rachel was dressed, and said, “Just stay here. You’ll be fine.”

“Max—”

Max strode through the CLU and pushed open the door, holding it at arm’s length. Rachel followed and looked over her shoulder. Two bulky men in blue camo BDUs stood at the foot of the steps with their arms folded across their chests. Both wore caps pulled down so low their eyes were barely visible. Neither smiled.

“If you’ll come with us, Commander,” one of them said.

Nothing in their expressions indicated they even saw Rachel.

Max didn’t move. “Ms. Winslow will need transportation to her quarters.”

“We’ll arrange for that, Commander.”

Max turned to Rachel. “Wait here. Someone will come to take you back.”

“What’s going on? Who are they?”

“I have to go.” Max smiled, her smile crooked and weary. “Go home, Rachel—get out of this place.”

Another Humvee pulled up behind the one idling in front of Max’s CLU. A man and a woman got out, both dressed in desert khakis. Both were white, trim and tanned, in their early thirties. Both looked a lot like Carmody. The woman, a brunette with a perfect face that registered absolutely nothing, walked up beside the uniformed men. “Ms. Winslow. We’ll take you back to your quarters.”

Rachel gripped the back of Max’s T-shirt, as if she could keep her there, away from these strangers. Keep her safe. “Thank you, but I’m fine. I’m going with Commander de Milles.”

Max reached behind her back and gently eased Rachel’s fingers free. “You’re not part of this, Rachel. Go home.”

“But—”

Max strode down onto the hard dry ground and said to the two men, “Let’s get out of here.”

Rachel watched them pile into the Humvee and drive away. Max never looked back.

Chapter Twenty-two

The Humvee disappeared around the corner, and Rachel was left standing on the steps of Max’s CLU in the hot, bright sun. A burst of annoyance helped push aside the wave of sadness left in Max’s wake. Max saw her as she wanted—needed—to be seen, but she still had more to learn if she believed for a second Rachel would leave her now. Squinting into the glare, she looked down at the two people regarding her impassively. “Who are you?”

The woman held out her hand. “Abigail Kennedy.”

Her accent said New England, her carriage and demeanor said privilege. She was in her early thirties, with medium-length, sun-streaked brown hair, professionally cut into a casual, layered, easy-to-care-for style that would look good out in the desert or at a cocktail party. Clear, straightforward blue-eyed gaze. Perfect heart-shaped face, nicely proportioned straight nose, full-lipped smile. Very pretty and trying to play it down with the absence of any makeup, no jewelry of any kind, and the same neutral-colored shirt and pants everyone wore in one form or another. Her attempt to blend in couldn’t quite hide her breeding or her background. Rachel had seen a thousand like her growing up in DC, at prep school, then college, and later at diplomatic events she’d been obligated to attend with her parents. Women like her generally wanted to be in charge, but they’d never go outside the wire, as Max would say. They’d order someone else to do that. Under other circumstances she might not have judged her quite so harshly, but right now she wasn’t given to being nice.

Kennedy still held out her hand and Rachel shook it briefly. Cool and confident, just like Abigail Kennedy.

Rachel looked at the man who stood a pace behind Kennedy. Another perfect specimen. Six feet or a tad taller, with a rangy build and the requisite broad shoulders. Dark hair, long enough on top to be stylish but not too long, neatly trimmed around his ears and the back of his neck. A long thin face, dark brown eyes to go with the hair. Eyes some women might call soulful. Just a little stubble on his nicely formed jaw. Five o’clock shadow at what…ten in the morning? She wondered if that was a studied effect. She held his gaze.

“Adam Smith, Ms. Winslow.” He held out his hand. “We’re from your father.”

“That was fast.”

“Fortunately, we were…at the embassy.”

That didn’t tell her anything, and she doubted Kennedy and Smith would elaborate. All manner of people were stationed at foreign embassies, especially in areas of active military engagement: diplomats, Foreign Service attaches, journalists, and agents from all branches of intelligence. Her two new bodyguards could be anyone. They probably weren’t any happier with their babysitting assignment than she was to have them. She sighed. “What’s going on?”

Both shook their head. Kennedy spoke first. “We’re just here to accompany you until you leave for the States. Accommodations have been arranged for you near the embassy. We’ll drive you back to your quarters here so you can pick up your things.”

Rachel snorted. “I’m afraid what you see is what there is. I didn’t exactly have time to pack a bag, and I don’t need to retrieve my military issue toothbrush.”

Abigail colored. “Yes, sorry about that. We’ll see that whatever you need is provided.” She stepped back and gestured to the Humvee. “If you’d like to go now.”

“What I’d like is a ride to the base hospital. There’s someone I need to see.”

Neither of them moved.

“You are here to accompany me, isn’t that right? Well,” Rachel said, striding down the stairs, “I’m going to the hospital. If you’d like to tag along, fine.”

She started walking back in the direction she’d come from that morning. She’d paid attention to the route from the hospital to Max’s, and she thought she could get reasonably close. If she got lost, anyone she passed would be able to direct her. She’d be more than happy to do without her escort. Kennedy and Smith might be exactly who they said they were—two people who had been handy to be reassigned to a protective detail for a few days. But she didn’t trust them. Right now, she didn’t trust anyone except Max, Grif, and Amina.

Sweat broke out everywhere after a few steps. The temperature was already close to a hundred, and breakfast was a long time ago. So was sleep. She hadn’t thought about either one when she’d been with Max. Those moments inside the CLU were as far away from the heat and desolation of this place as the stars were from earth. Max and the way Max made her feel—alive and free and more connected than she’d ever been—were all that mattered. She would have been happy to stay there for the rest of her life. She would be happy to be anywhere with Max for the rest of her life. Rachel’s legs trembled, and the trembling had nothing to do with the heat or hunger or fatigue. Max. All the many fascinating sides of Max flashed through her mind—Max with a warrior’s strength and sense of purpose, her eyes gleaming with determination; Max with a surgeon’s skill and supple hands, defeating death; Max, comforting her with tenderness and understanding. Max was like no one she had ever known and she wasn’t letting her go.

The Humvee pulled up alongside her. Kennedy spoke from the passenger side. “Please get in, Ms. Winslow. We’ll be happy to drive you.”

“Thank you.” Rachel climbed into the back. She needed to conserve her strength. It might be a long time before she slept again. The ten-minute drive passed in silence, and she tried not to let her thoughts wander to what might be happening to Max. Every time she did, fear reared up from the recesses of her mind and her heart raced and her stomach turned over. Max was in trouble, and while Max might have tried to convince her she was no part of whatever was happening, she knew better. She’d been part of it from the beginning. If she hadn’t been out there in the jungle, those Black Hawks wouldn’t have been either. Maybe even the rebels wouldn’t have been there. Max and Grif certainly wouldn’t have ended up fighting to keep them all alive, and probably Max would not be caught up in the middle of whatever political game was being played out right now. But whatever had brought them all together, she’d always been part of it.

And what was happening now was no different than what had happened out in the jungle. She and Max, possibly Grif, and maybe even Amina were under attack. The enemy wore a different uniform and was coming in the daylight and not the dark, but they were no less dangerous. She wasn’t leaving Max or Grif or Amina. She didn’t have a rifle, but she had other weapons.

The Humvee pulled up in front of the hospital and she climbed out. The front doors of the vehicle opened, and Kennedy put one long, slim leg down on the ground.

Rachel blocked her exit. “There’s no need for you to come in. I’m sure this thing has air-conditioning. I won’t be long.”

Kennedy looked over her shoulder at Smith, who shrugged. Finally Kennedy pulled her leg back into the vehicle and closed her door. Rachel retraced her route through the hospital to the office where she’d inquired earlier about Max and Grif. The same ensign, a fresh-faced redhead with honest-to-God freckles who’d helped her then, was still on duty. He pushed some papers aside and grinned up at her when she approached his desk. “Ms. Winslow, you’re back.”

She smiled and read his name tag. “Good memory, Ensign Feeny. Is Lieutenant Griffin awake yet? I’d really like to see him.”

“Let me check for you. He sure is popular.”

Rachel kept her smile in place. “Is that right?”

“Yep. I’ve had half a dozen calls about him already this morning.”

“Well, you must have a line wanting to visit, then.”

Feeny shook his head. “Not yet. I’m supposed to call HQ when he wakes up.” He shrugged sheepishly and gestured to the piles of forms on his desk. “I’m a little behind.”

“I know how that is. If you could point me to him, I’ll get out of your way.”

“Oh no, ma’am, I’m happy for the company.”

“Thanks,” she said, impatience bubbling in her throat. HQ wanted a call. Captain Pettit might just want a status report on one of his wounded. All sorts of people would need to be notified, including family. All of that could be nothing out of the ordinary, but she didn’t think so. She could still see Carmody sitting by Pettit’s desk, looking smug and predatory.

Feeny rose. “Come on. He’s in a regular berth now.”

He walked her down a series of hallways with curtained cubicles on either side. She caught glimpses as she passed of beds, some of them empty, others occupied with men and women sleeping or reading or staring into space. The place was clean and brightly lit and smelled of the things hospitals usually did—food, antiseptic, pain.

Feeny pushed aside a curtain and motioned her into a space with two beds, two matching metal tables side by side between them, and a window above. The tan walls were bare and bleak. One bed was empty. Grif slept in the other. A stand on wheels stood at the end of his bed with a pitcher of water and a medical chart.

“Thank you,” Rachel said quietly. Feeny nodded and left. She moved a metal chair from the corner next to Grif’s bed and sat down. He was a big man, but he’d seemed so much bigger out there in the jungle, even injured. Maybe it was because his combat gear was gone, or maybe the sterile, artificial purity of the white sheet covering him diminished him somehow, but he seemed smaller, frailer. She missed the streaks of camouflage below his eyes. She even missed the smudges of dirt. He and Max had both looked so foreign and frightening in those first few chaotic seconds. She saw Max as she’d first encountered her—pointing a rifle at her, a fierce expression beneath the war paint and the grime. She thought of Max as she’d been just an hour before, fresh from the shower, her skin smooth as satin, the sharp planes of her face unmasked. The armor had been gone but her strength had remained. Tears filled her eyes and she impatiently brushed them away. Max was a warrior. She would be all right, but she wasn’t going to fight this fight alone.

Rachel clasped Grif’s hand where it lay on the bed and squeezed his fingers. “Hi, Grif. You probably don’t remember me. I’m Rachel.”

Grif’s hand twitched and he opened his eyes. “Laurie?”

“No, Grif, it’s Rachel Winslow. You’re in the hospital. You’re hurt, but you’re doing better now.”

Slowly he turned his head, blinked, and frowned. “You’re not my wife.”

“No, I’m not. I’m Rachel. We spent some time together out in the jungle.”

“I remember.” He frowned. “Were you sitting on me?”

She laughed softly, the memory of Max operating in the midst of all that insanity filling her with a rush of triumph. They’d survived. All of them, together. “I was.”

“Thought so. Where’s Max?”

“She’s here. She’s okay.”

He sighed. “Good.”

“Something’s going on, Grif,” Rachel said. “They’re asking a lot of questions about what happened out there. Has anyone been here?”

“No. At least, not that I remember.” He blinked several times and when he focused on her again, his gaze was sharper. “Where’s Max?”

“I don’t know. Two men took Max away. I’m a little worried.”

“Two men—did they have patches, badges? Like Masters at Arms? Military police?”

Rachel tried to picture the blue uniforms, the name tags and patches. “I think maybe, yes.”

“That’s not normal.” He raised his head, surveyed his body. Tubes ran out from beneath the sheets in several places and two IV bags hung from a metal pole anchored to the opposite side. “I’m not going anywhere for a while. Fuck.”

“You need to concentrate on getting better. Max would say the same thing.”

“Yeah, but she’s a hard-ass and never thinks she needs any help.”

Rachel smiled. So Grif saw beneath the camouflage too. “Tell me what to do. How would I find out what’s going on?”

“I don’t know if you can. If there’s some kind of investigation, they’re gonna keep it quiet. If you poke around, they’ll just stonewall.”

“Okay. A frontal attack is out. I guess I’ll have to find a way in they won’t be able to shut down.”

“Good plan.” He grinned. “Where’s the other woman? The one who was with me all the time.”

“Amina. She’s here too. She’s all right.”

“Tell her I said thank you. She’s very brave.”

Rachel swallowed hard. “She is. You all are.”

Grif’s eyes closed. “Don’t leave Max all alone.”

“I won’t. I promise.” Rachel stood. “Go to sleep, Grif. I’ll tell Max you said to keep her head down.”

He opened his eyes. “Could you call my wife? I don’t want the only message she gets about this to come through channels.”

“Of course. I’d be honored. Tell me your number. Laurie, right?”

“Yeah.” He recited a number.

“Is there anything special you want me to tell her?”

“Tell her I’m fine and everything works.”

Rachel laughed. “I’m sure she’ll be very glad to hear that.”

She left him, knowing he’d protect Max when they came to question him. Outside, she climbed back into the Humvee and said, “I’d like to go to headquarters now.”

“Certainly,” Kennedy said. Apparently, Smith didn’t speak.

Rachel closed her eyes and let the cool air from the AC revitalize her. Penetrating the wall of silence was going to be impossible on her own. She didn’t know anyone at the military base who would talk to her. Her father might be able to help, but involving him might not be a good idea, not when she didn’t know the reasons for the investigation or who was behind it. Besides, she hated calling on him to solve her problems. Fatigue settled over her and she shook it off. She still had work to do.

“Ms. Winslow,” Kennedy said.

Rachel jerked upright. God, she’d fallen asleep. She looked outside. The Humvee idled in front of HQ. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“We’ll wait.”

Rachel climbed out and went inside. She found Pettit’s office after a few wrong turns, knocked on the door, and the same chief petty officer opened it.

“Ma’am? May I help you?”

“I’d like to see Captain Pettit, please.”

He studied her a second before holding the door open. “If you’d wait a moment, ma’am.” He walked to the inner door, knocked, and disappeared. A minute later he returned and escorted her into Pettit’s office.

The captain rose from behind his desk. “Ms. Winslow. How may I help you?”

“I’d like to see Commander de Milles.”

“The commander is in a meeting right now.”

“A meeting.” Rachel fought to keep her expression neutral. She thought about her father’s eternal calm even when she knew he was seething and injected some of that icy control into her voice. “A meeting that required two military police to escort her?”

The captain’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss this with you.”

“Captain, I would be dead. Lieutenant Griffin would be dead. Amina Roos would be dead, and probably others, if it weren’t for Commander de Milles. Whatever happened out there, accident or planned, was none of her doing.”

“As I said, I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

“I thought it customary that a commanding officer supported his troops. Not turned them over to outside agencies to be interrogated.”

A muscle bunched along his jaw. “Certain evidence has come to light. The commander’s being questioned, as are several other members of the mission, as part of routine follow-up. That’s all I can tell you.”

Certain evidence. Well, that told her something beyond routine was going on, and Pettit probably had no control over it. Politics trumped just about everything, even military authority. Rachel saw the finality in his eyes and possibly regret. He couldn’t help her. This route was closed to her, but she wasn’t going to abandon Max without firing a shot.

Chapter Twenty-three

Max could sleep anywhere—on a gurney in a dark corner waiting for the OR to be cleaned and the next patient to be wheeled in on a long night of back-to-back emergencies, on the ground behind a swell of sand while her comrades kept watch for the enemies who lurked in the night—almost anywhere except in her rack, where she was supposed to be safe. Maybe the only time she felt safe was when she was actually facing death, one-on-one. She wasn’t safe with Carmody, but since she’d been left alone in a bare room with nothing but two metal chairs and a steel table, she’d rather sleep than stare at the blank walls and know she was being watched and probably recorded. Besides, closing her eyes was as near as she could get to flipping off whoever was trying to rattle her.

The instant she closed her eyes, she thought of Rachel and pictured the man and woman who’d shown up outside her CLU looking for Rachel. They weren’t military. They were more likely of Carmody’s brand, maybe even working with him. They might be friend or foe. Rachel could handle herself, but she’d probably never run up against people like these before. People who thought nothing of using any tactic at their disposal to get what they wanted. People who thought their mission was somehow more vital than that of those who put their bodies on the line every day. People who seemed to have forgotten what the enemy looked like. Rachel didn’t belong anywhere near this snake pit of suspicion and accusation.

Max would have given almost anything to know Rachel was far away from all of this, but she hadn’t asked. Giving Carmody any indication Rachel mattered to her would be like handing him a loaded weapon and pointing it at her own head. He’d already asked the same questions as he had the night before all over again, as if expecting the answers to be different this time. Who were the insurgents who attacked the camp? How did they know the timing of the rescue operation? What was their target? Who was their target? Who had Max told about the operation? Who had someone else told? Who had she met in the jungle? Every time he asked, she answered him the same way she had the first time, and after he’d grown tired of questioning or perhaps thought if he left her alone she’d panic or bargain, he walked out. After a few hours he came back and started again. Keeping track of time was difficult after so many days without sleep in a barren space with nothing to orient her. No windows, no clock, no voices outside the room. They hadn’t taken her to HQ as she’d first expected, but to a nondescript building at the far edge of the base. She hadn’t seen any base personnel at all when she’d climbed out of the Humvee. Maybe no one even knew she was there. She considered who might miss her if she didn’t arrive back in the States anytime soon.

No one.

She hadn’t notified the hospital of her pending return, since her position was secure—ERs always had trouble keeping surgeons willing to take in-house call to cover emergencies—and she hadn’t been sure when she’d arrive stateside. Her fellow docs would be glad to see her—another body to take call and lighten everyone’s load. Maybe the OR nurse she’d spent a night with would give her an extra-special welcome-back smile. But if she never returned? No one would inquire. She hadn’t talked to anyone in her family in over a decade. They hadn’t shown any interest in her plans when she’d been young—in fact, her father had made it clear she was on her own when she hit eighteen. She’d researched how best to pay her way through college and medical school and settled on the Navy. The day after her eighteenth birthday she was on a bus south to Cornell on an ROTC scholarship. She’d never looked back and doubted she’d crossed their minds in years. No girlfriend. No friends. Not even a fucking cat.

Carmody held all the cards except one—she didn’t care what he did to her. And his brand of power depended on fear.

The second time he left her alone she’d slept. And the third. That felt like a couple of hours each time. He hadn’t brought her any food, but he’d left a plastic bottle of water on the table, which she drank. She could use another one. She could use two or three cups of coffee and a big meal.

What she really needed was to see Rachel. Just to know that she was somewhere safe and out of whatever was happening here. When the hunger kept her from sleeping and her mind started to wander a little bit from fatigue and stress and anger, and her tight, iron control started to slip, she thought back to the moments before the Masters at Arms had come for her. Rachel had appeared out of nowhere, standing there on the steps of her CLU, refusing to be turned away or ignored or put off by Max’s wall of silence. Max smiled to herself. Stubborn as she was beautiful. And then somehow, the barriers had crumbled and her resolve had vanished under the soft caress of Rachel’s mouth. She couldn’t push her away, she’d needed her too much. She needed the incredible sensation of being with Rachel—as if they were alone in the universe, standing in a pure mountain glade with the sun shining down and the breeze, so cool, blowing over her skin. As if they had stripped naked and stepped into a crystal lake and the only heat came from Rachel’s skin against her skin, driving the chill away, warming her deep inside. Body to body, she’d run her hands over silky skin and tangled her fingers in thick red-gold hair glowing in the sun. Rachel’s eyes were the color of the evergreens that formed a shield around them. There’d been no death, no dying, no pain. She couldn’t think back to a time when there hadn’t been pain—of rejection, of being on the outside, of never quite being enough to matter. She smiled to herself, thinking of Rachel astride her, wild and free. She’d been enough then. She’d given everything she had and for those few moments, she had been enough.

The door opened and Carmody walked in. “Something amusing, Commander de Milles?”

Max slowly opened her eyes and focused on him. He’d shaved and showered and wore a fresh uniform. She could smell the aftershave still wafting from his skin. Ate too, probably, the bastard.

She said nothing and carefully blanked her mind. She didn’t want him in the room with even the memory of Rachel. He carried a laptop computer that he set on the table between them as he settled into the other chair. He opened it unhurriedly, pushed a few buttons, and turned it toward her.

“I wonder if you could help me out with this.”

Max stared at the laptop as a video played. There was no sound and it was very dark—a night scene—and a little bit grainy, but she instantly recognized the base, the landing field, and a line of Black Hawks tethered to the tarmac. Every few seconds a vehicle passed by on an access road and the headlights cut a swath of light through the darkness, illuminating the birds as if a spotlight shone on them. A shadowy figure leaned over or…she squinted…maybe reached under the open bay of one of the birds. The view panned away as the slowly swiveling security camera made its circuits. More vehicles passed, red and white lights flickered in the air from departing and returning aircraft, and then another view of the Black Hawks shot into the foreground. This time the light shone inside one of them from the bird’s interior running lights, and she recognized the figure leaning into the bird. She recognized herself, checking out the med supplies before the mission. The video went on for a few more minutes showing the same sweep, the same random base activity, but this time when it showed the Black Hawk again, the bay was dark and empty. When the image came to an end, Carmody turned the computer around and closed the screen.

“Would you like to interpret that for me?” he asked.

Max had no idea if Carmody knew the figure in the second sweep was her or not. If she’d trusted him, she would have told him. She’d had every right to be there and hadn’t been doing anything she hadn’t done a hundred times before. The only one who knew for sure she’d been there was Grif. He might be awake by now, and they could’ve questioned him. He wouldn’t have had any reason not to tell them he’d seen her there. Carmody might already know that was her in the video—but then why was he asking her? If she denied it, she could be walking into a trap. But he didn’t strike her as the subtle type. If he had a weapon, he’d use it. He’d get too much pleasure out of watching the bullet penetrate flesh not to. She said nothing.

“Funny, the timing,” he said conversationally. “I just don’t like coincidences, do you?”

Max thought about closing her eyes and going back to sleep.

“Of course, there is another possibility.” He smiled, and if she’d been a dog, her hackles would’ve been up and her teeth would’ve been bared. He’d be the kind of animal to attack from the back, slashing at your hindquarters when you weren’t looking.

“Someone else did know. I mean, outside of us.”

Max didn’t like the little bit of triumph in his voice. She kept her hands flat on the table so she wouldn’t clench her fists. She wondered if she could lunge across the table and get her hands around his throat before someone came through the door to restrain her. If she did, she’d probably be looking at a prison cell. That might almost be worth it.

“It appears Ms. Winslow received a communication the night before the operation was to take place. So there was someone out there who might have”—he waggled his hand—“alerted someone. If she had friends in the area or if her friends had friends.”

Max took a second for her vision to clear and her temper to edge down a notch. “Seems odd to me, but then, it’s not my job to weave fairy tales. But…I’m not seeing why someone would want to arrange for their own attack.”

A spark of fire flared in Carmody’s flat, dead eyes, giving Max a little burst of pleasure. He didn’t like being challenged. He probably didn’t like that she wasn’t afraid, either.

“There’s plenty of places to hide a transponder on a Black Hawk,” Carmody said.

So that was that his working hypothesis—that the rebels had tracked one of the birds after a sympathizer had put a transponder on one. That might even be true. Thousands of people, troops and civilians, moved about the base every day. Base security was focused on entry points for vehicles that might be carrying bombs and the heavily populated areas that might be a target for suicide attacks. A single unarmed individual walking about was not likely to raise an alarm. Anyone might have put a tracer on the bird, although she still wasn’t buying it. Carmody wanted a scapegoat really badly. She wished she knew why.

He pushed the laptop to one side and leaned forward, probably thinking he’d appear more intimidating. “Tell me about Rachel Winslow.”

Two feet between them now. She could almost feel his flesh beneath her fingers, feel her thumbs pressing into his hyoid, hear the satisfying crack of the tiny bone when she squeezed. She leaned forward too, her hands still flat on the table. She looked into his eyes, watched his pupils flare.

A sharp rap sounded at the door and Carmody’s brows twitched. A muscle in his jaw tightened, and he leaned back in his chair. Max took a deep breath, let the vision of choking him to death slide out of her mind. The door swung open and Captain Pettit walked in.

“We’re done here,” Pettit said.

“We’ll talk again,” Carmody said softly. He stood, picked up the laptop, and walked out.

Max struggled not to slump in her chair. She was a lot more tired than she’d thought. Her arm ached beneath the bandage. Other places ached too. Her rib cage where she’d taken the weight of the SEAL when he’d tackled her at the aid camp, her hip where she’d landed on a rock, her shoulders from digging the foxhole and burying the dead.

“Let’s go, Commander.”

Max stood and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

He returned her salute perfunctorily. “You’ll be escorted back to your CLU. Get some food, get some sleep, get cleaned up. Report to HQ at zero eight hundred in battle BDUs.”

“Yes, sir. May I ask why, sir?”

“It seems you have friends with interesting connections, Commander.”

He didn’t look pleased so she didn’t ask anything else. She was just happy to get out of the sweatbox and away from Carmody.

“And, Commander,” Pettit added as she followed him outside, “you are confined to your quarters until then.”

“Yes, sir.” Max judged it to be just a little after sundown. She’d been inside all day.

Pettit vaulted into his vehicle and his Humvee pulled away. A second vehicle idled nearby. Max climbed in and nodded to the ensign, who drove her directly to the DFAC. She filled a tray with mashed potatoes, roast beef, vegetables, and bread and took the tray to a table in the corner. The ensign stood just inside the door at the far end of the room, discreetly watching her. She was too damn tired to run, and besides, where would she go? And why? She hadn’t done anything wrong, and she wasn’t about to let Carmody hang something on her to cover his own ass, which was what she suspected was at stake.

She ate methodically until her plate was empty. When she rose, she felt a little stronger, but her head was muzzy with fatigue. The next stop was a shower facility, and as the hot water eased some of the aches in her stiff muscles, she tried to come up with a plan. She needed to talk to Grif and the other team members. She wondered if there was any way to find out about Rachel but knew there wasn’t. Rachel was really gone this time.

Emptiness hit her harder than a bullet.

Chapter Twenty-four

The CLU was empty when Max stumbled in. CC’s half of the unit was neat and tidy as usual. She’d made her bed as she always did, put away her laundry, and neatened up the objects on her storage shelves. Max’s portion looked just like she’d left it—her fatigues were in a pile in the corner, her sheets twisted, and the blankets half off on the floor. About as wrecked as her life.

Max stripped and fell face down on her rumpled bed. The pillow smelled like Rachel, the faintest hint of almonds and vanilla. Light and sweet. Some of the weight lifted from her heart. How was it that Rachel always brought peace, even in the throes of chaos? Rachel. Fuck. Rachel was gone. Out of habit, she reached over the side of the bed and felt around for the bottle of whiskey. Her fingers closed around the slick glass and her mind clamored for the cool burn and the dull edge of almost-forgetting. She rolled over and left the bottle where it was. She didn’t want to forget. She wanted to remember. She slid her hand under her T-shirt and over the surface of her midsection where Rachel had stroked her. Everywhere Rachel touched had come alive, and even now her skin, her muscles, her very bones tingled with the memory. She pressed her face closer to her pillow, immersing herself in the scent of Rachel, and closed her eyes.

When she woke, the hazy light filtering through the slatted window of her CLU told her it was morning, just after dawn. She sat up despite her body’s protest. She was stiff and sore everywhere, inside and out. Her stomach was queasy, her head pounding. She hadn’t dreamed, or if she had, she couldn’t remember. She felt drugged although she knew she wasn’t. She wondered what would be waiting for her at HQ. If she’d be facing another day with Carmody or maybe someone else, for some other kind of inquisition. Maybe Ollie and Dan and the others on the team were locked away in another windowless room going through the same thing. Something had gone wrong somewhere, and blaming the troops on the ground was always better than blaming the brass. The fuckups at the detention centers in Iraq had been proof plenty of that.

Grif ought to be awake by now. If he hadn’t been shipped out to the regional hospital, they might have questioned him. She wasn’t worried. Grif would always have her back. Her stomach twisted—she didn’t want him being browbeaten when he was in no position to defend himself. She checked her watch. Two hours before she needed to report. Time enough to fuel up and check on Grif. Pettit said she was confined to quarters, but unless a Master at Arms stood at her door, she was going to see Grif.

She pulled on clean BDUs, washed up with water from a bottle of drinking water, and broke out an MRE. She swallowed the ham and egg sandwich in three bites and washed it down with the rest of the water. She peered out through the slats and scanned the road in front of her CLU. No vehicles. No escort she could see. Just to be safe, she found a screwdriver and pried off the plywood square they’d nailed over a ventilation port to prevent light from escaping after dark, removed the screws holding the screen in place, and went out the back window.

No one paid any attention to her as she strode through the camp to the hospital. She stopped a hundred feet away and watched for a while. Just the usual stream of troops straggling in for morning sick call. At 0700 everyone in the place would be busy dealing with the walkins. At 0705 she skirted around the line, nodded briskly to the ensign handling sign-in, and slipped inside. Everyone knew her, and after the usual quick greeting from harried personnel, no one spared her a second glance. She bet Grif was in the step-down unit—semi critical care—and tried there first.

“Griffin?” she said to the corpsman at the desk.

“Third bay on the right,” she said without looking up from the morning report.

“Thanks.” Max checked the hall. No one on guard outside Grif’s cubicle. She hustled inside. Grif was propped up in bed with a steaming Styrofoam cup in the hand that that wasn’t attached to an IV.

He paused, the cup an inch from his mouth. His eyes glinted. “You look like shit, Deuce.”

“Then I’m looking twice as good as you.” She couldn’t stop a grin. “How’s the leg?”

“Hurts like a mother.”

She reached for the sheet across his lap.

“Hey—commando here,” he said quickly, covering his groin.

“Seen it before. Still reeling from amazement.”

He laughed and she pushed the sheet aside, keeping his most important parts covered with one corner. The dressings had been removed and the incision was covered with a clear plastic adhesive barrier. Looked nice and clean. No signs of infection. She checked the skin temp of his lower thigh. Color and circulation fine. The pulses in his foot were bounding. “How’s the sensation?”

“There’s a little numbness just above my knee. The foot’s good.”

“Cutaneous nerves.” She replaced the sheet. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I owe you,” he said softly. “The surgeon told me he found a major bleeder tied off in the hole in my leg. If you hadn’t gotten it I’d be dead.”

Max shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, you don’t owe me.” She met his gaze. “You probably saved Rachel Winslow. I owe you for that.”

His eyebrow twitched. “She’s…interesting.”

“Yeah.”

“And hot.”

Max narrowed her eyes. “Careful.”

“Huh,” he said thoughtfully. “Like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” He handed her the coffee cup and pushed himself up higher. “What the fuck is going on, then?”

Max set the cup on the table. “No fucking idea. Well, I have some idea, but no facts. Has a guy named Carmody been here?”

“Midday yesterday. I was still pretty groggy.”

Carmody must have come over here during one of the times he’d left her alone. Maybe hoping to get some information from Grif to contradict what she had to say. “Then you probably know as much as me.”

“Why do they think the mission was sabotaged?” Grif asked.

Max pulled over a chair and sat. “Nobody likes it when a mission objective fails and casualties are involved. You and I had front-row seats to what went on out there—or at least Rachel, Amina, and I did, so they’re focusing on us.”

“Seems like overkill,” Grif muttered.

“I think this is more than the usual assigning of blame—but I can’t quite figure out what.”

Grif gave her a look. “What about Rachel?”

Max’s jaw tightened. “What about her?”

“Down, boy—jeez.” Grif grinned. “Maybe she’s the unknown factor. What do you know about her?”

Max considered. If she said she knew everything she needed to know that mattered, would he understand? She thought of the photo he carried in his pocket of Laurie and his kids. Yeah, he’d understand.

“Enough to know she’s not to blame.”

“Don’t doubt it,” he said instantly. “But she’s in it.”

“Maybe not. She’s gone.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s out.”

*

Rachel stared into the mirror as she put the finishing touches to her makeup. Her face was a blur and she blinked to clear her vision. How fitting that her own face seemed that of a stranger. The Sheraton was a block from the embassy in Djibouti and a universe away from where she’d been just days before. Last night, she’d slept on clean, crisp, cool white sheets. She’d had clothes and shoes delivered by the hotel concierge from an order she’d phoned down. She’d had dinner and breakfast brought to her on a rolling cart with real dishes and silverware, served by deferential hotel staff. All the comforts of home and she’d never felt so displaced in her life. She felt like an imposter. This was not where she belonged. She should be back in the jungle camp or with Max.

She was very good at playing a part—she’d been doing it all her life. Dutiful daughter. Willing bed partner. Even selfless activist. She’d gone along with her father’s demands more often than not rather than propagate family unrest. She’d dated women she didn’t love because she knew she never would. And even her aid work was as much about her need for validation as it was to help others. She’d been pretty much a fraud until she’d come face-to-face with death and learned from Max what really mattered. Loyalty, honor, love.

Now here she was, playing a role again. But she didn’t have a choice, and she’d use whatever resources she had. The clock on her bedside table read a little after seven. She was supposed to meet Kennedy and Smith in the lobby in half an hour. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She’d slept on and off during the endless night out of sheer exhaustion, and awakened not feeling rested. Her dreams, what she could recall of them, had been fragmented and filled with clatter and the sour taste of danger. She’d kept the light on in the adjoining bathroom and the door partly ajar. She hadn’t wanted to go to sleep in the dark and couldn’t help but think if Max had been with her, she wouldn’t have cared what nightmares crept into her dreams.

Her hand trembled and she put down the sponge covered in pale pink powder. Max. More than twenty-four hours since she’d seen her. What had they done to her in the last twenty-four hours? Rachel wasn’t so innocent as to disbelieve the stories she’d heard of interrogation techniques, but surely not with a United States naval officer?

She couldn’t think about it. If she did, panic swelled and her head grew light. She’d felt safer in the jungle, trapped in an empty, decimated camp surrounded by the dead and faceless enemies than she did here in this supposedly civilized world. She’d felt safer because she’d been with Max and they’d stood together, waiting to face whatever was out there. And she’d known with absolute certainty that Max would be beside her, no matter what.

“I’m coming,” she said as she turned from the face in the mirror. “I hope you know that. I’m coming.”

The phone rang on the small table by the bed and she jumped, the sound so alien she almost couldn’t recognize it. She picked it up on the third ring. “Yes?”

“Rachel, it’s Amina.”

“Amina!” Rachel sank onto the side of the bed. The sound of a friendly voice made her eyes fill. “How are you? Where are you?”

“I am home, with my family. They drove me from the camp yesterday. You got the message I had left, yes?”

“Yes.” Kennedy had informed her that Amina was gone as they’d driven Rachel to the embassy. She’d been glad that Amina was safe, even though the loneliness was choking.

“Good. I did not want you to think I had left you.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

Amina said. “I also got yours—the one you left at aid headquarters. I called there this morning and they gave me this number.”

“I couldn’t think how else to reach you,” Rachel said. “I knew you’d call there sooner or later.”

“How are you?”

Rachel considered the security on her phone line. Anything was possible, but she rather doubted the hotel lines were being monitored. “I’ve been better. Something strange is happening.”

“Many questions,” Amina said tentatively.

“Someone talked to you, didn’t they?”

“Yes, after you left yesterday morning, Major Newton came back. I’m afraid I might have made a mistake.”

“No, whatever is going on, none of this is your fault.”

“She asked questions and I was very tired. And…remembering. I didn’t think what I was saying.”

Rachel’s breath grew cold in her chest. Making Amina relive the horror was torture by any name. Rachel wanted an enemy to face, not these nameless shadows. “I know. The remembering is hard.”

“I told them about the phone call. I didn’t realize it would matter.”

For a minute, Rachel couldn’t sort out what Amina was saying. Time had become so compressed at the camp—moments became hours and days felt like weeks. She felt as if she’d known Max all her life, maybe because during the time they’d been together her life had been distilled into a series of acute moments where every thought and action mattered. How could it be that a whole lifetime of moments could have less meaning than just those very few? She shuddered and closed her eyes. God, Max. Where are you?

“Rachel?”

Rachel opened he eyes. “Phone call? Oh, the night before—”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I thought I should tell you. I didn’t think then it mattered, but I’ve been remembering all those questions. Now that I am not so tired, I am worried I said too much.”

“It’s all right. Really.”

Amina’s sigh came through the line. “What about Max and Grif?”

“Grif is going to be all right.”

“I’m so glad. He was very brave.”

“So are you. He asked me to tell you that. And he said to tell you thank you.”

“He remembered?” A lightness filled Amina’s voice, a note of pride and happiness amongst so much sadness.

“Yes, he did specifically. And he was right. I don’t think I could have held it all together if you hadn’t been there.”

“Yes, you could have. You became a warrior, like Max.”

“No,” Rachel said softly. “Not like Max. But thank you.”

“She is all right?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel said softly. She glanced at the clock. “But I will soon.”

Chapter Twenty-five

“Commander.” The chief saluted Max as she walked into the anteroom of the CO’s office. He rose from behind his desk, his broad face implacable as always.

She returned the salute. The clock on the wall behind his desk showed one minute before 0800. Her escort, unofficial guard, had picked her up as she’d walked back to her CLU from the hospital. He hadn’t returned her grin when she’d climbed into the Humvee.

“Come with me,” the chief said. “They’re in the ready room.”

They’re? Max followed him, a kernel of hope threatening to germinate. Maybe this was just a routine debriefing. After every mission the team got together to reconstruct the events—the timeline, the roles everyone played, the problems, the outcome. Not only did this help provide useful information on mission planning and effectiveness, it provided the additional benefit of letting the team members voice their experiences. The incidence of post-mission stress and anxiety dropped as debriefings became standard. If ever a mission required an after-event review, it was this one. Carmody’s face flashed through her mind as she walked down the brightly lit hall. His involvement had changed everything. No one was likely to volunteer any information about the failed attempt to rescue Rachel.

No. She wasn’t headed to a debriefing. More likely she’d be facing a panel from JAG—hopefully with a representative from the legal corps on her side. At least if that was the case, she wouldn’t have to go up against a group of them one-on-one. She almost smiled. She’d rather go one-on-one against a dozen armed rebels than four lawyers. At least in the field, she understood the nature of the battle. Somewhere behind all of this was politics, something she understood enough to know she hated. She bumped up against it now and then in medicine but managed to stay clear by refusing advancement into positions where she’d have to play the bureaucratic game in order to achieve her goals. She was much more comfortable going head-to-head against any kind of adversary.

The chief rapped on the door to the ready room, pushed it open, and stood aside for her to enter. She knew the layout—a long table in the center of the room, standard metal folding chairs around it. With luck, fresh coffee in the big pot on a stand in one corner. She stepped inside, the door closed behind her, and she tried to register what she was seeing. Nothing made sense. All she could see was Rachel.

She stopped breathing, a cannon barrage filling her head, driving out thought. Rachel sat on the far side of the table, her hands folded on top, looking back at Max. She looked…different. Beautiful in an entirely different way than Max had ever seen her before. Beautiful in the way of women she would have automatically discounted as anyone she might have anything in common with. Rachel’s hair shone in lustrous red-brown waves that fell around her shoulders and feathered on her neck. Her green eyes were clear, without smudges beneath or shadows within. Her face was elegantly composed, every line and angle accentuated to perfection. The laceration Max had closed beneath her eye was invisible—expertly covered with makeup. Her mouth glistened with a light gloss—apricot or peach. Max could almost taste the sweetness. Her smile was a subtle stroke, appraising or secretly seductive. Her shirt was a deeper green than her eyes, silk or some other sleek fabric that clung just enough to show the outline of her breasts. Only the glint of fire behind the cool surface of her gaze hinted at the woman Max had discovered in the jungle. The one she’d held astride her.

Rachel didn’t greet her and Max felt the ground shift under her boots. Another hot zone, new rules of engagement.

Max pulled her attention away and looked at the man seated beside Rachel. About Rachel’s age, he wore a white shirt open at the throat, his cuffs casually rolled back to mid-forearm. His skin was tanned, the muscles corded. His hands were smooth and regular, not the scarred, bruised, rough hands of a soldier. His black hair curled slightly around his ears and at the back of his neck, surprisingly soft-looking in stark contrast to the chiseled planes of his face. He resembled a marble Michelangelo come to life, and he sat very close to Rachel.

Less than twenty seconds had passed. Max pivoted to Pettit and saluted. “Sir.”

Pettit sat at the head of the table looking moderately annoyed. He saluted and gestured to a chair opposite Rachel and the other civilian. “Have a seat, Commander.”

Max pulled out a chair and sat down, her gaze returning to Rachel. She couldn’t look anywhere else. This woman was contained and controlled, as Max imagined Rachel had been before the assault on the camp. Maybe this was the real Rachel, not the woman who had taken her pleasure with abandon, wild and carefree. Maybe the woman she’d held in her arms had only existed in the aftermath of shared horror and had faded into the shadows of forgotten memory.

Pettit’s voice cut through her reverie.

“I believe you know Ms. Winslow. Mr. Benedict is with Reuters.”

Max focused on Benedict. A journalist. What the hell?

Benedict reached across the table and held out his hand. “Commander, very happy to meet you.”

“Mr. Benedict.” Max couldn’t quite figure out what this guy was doing here. Journalists and photographers were familiar figures around the base. They were embedded with a lot of the units, and she’d flown with some on board. But what was he doing here, and what did he want with her?

“Before we get started, I just wanted to add a personal note of thanks.”

“Oh?”

“For saving my future sister-in-law…and the others, of course.”

“Tommy,” Rachel said softly, laying a hand on his arm. “This isn’t—”

“Sorry, Rachel, but it’s true.” Benedict glanced at her, his expression earnest and charmingly intense, before turning back to Max. “My sister Christie would’ve been devastated if anything had happened to Rachel. We all would have been.”

Pettit cleared his throat. “Commander, Mr. Benedict is here to do a story about the rescue of Ms. Winslow and her associates. I think you understand our position on these things.”

Max was still trying to process what Benedict had said about Rachel being his future sister-in-law. Rachel and Benedict’s sister, Christie, engaged? Why was she surprised? A woman like Rachel wouldn’t be unattached.

Icy calm settled through her. Whatever had happened out there in the jungle was over and done. Now she had to focus on what was in front of her—she didn’t know why Rachel was here with this reporter, but she’d go along with it if it kept her out of the box with Carmody. This was just another mission to be gotten through. At least this time, no one would end up bleeding.

She glanced at her CO. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

He didn’t have to tell her that anything said to the press must represent the corps in a good light. When the press was around, no one complained about the duty. No one criticized policy. No one ever revealed the truth of what they saw or did or how they felt about it.

“We’re happy to cooperate with the press, of course.” Pettit stood. “The American public needs to know that the Navy is here to protect the citizens of Somalia and our international civilian allies everywhere in the region. That’s what you and your fellow troops came here to do, and that’s what you did. Your duty.”

Every word sounded as if it was being pulled out of his intestines with pliers. Most military personnel, especially the brass, viewed the press as having a different and often opposing agenda. The press was looking for news—and sometimes the news was not to the benefit of the military. But good PR was as important to the military as to any other group jockeying for money and power, and they couldn’t be seen as uncooperative or adversarial.

Max understood what was expected of her. “I don’t know that I’m the best one to represent—”

“Of course you are,” Benedict said. “You were there on the ground with Rachel and the others. If it weren’t for you, as I understand it,” he glanced at Rachel, “none of them would have survived.”

Max regarded Rachel. “Ms. Winslow exaggerates. I was only doing what any other troop would have done.”

His smile suggested he didn’t really believe her. “Well, let’s talk about that, so we can tell the world just how important it is that you’re all here.”

“Right.” Max shifted her gaze away from Rachel. Just another mission.

*

Tommy clicked off the tape recorder. “Thank you, Commander. I…well. Like I said before. That’s a remarkable story, and I’m sure the Sec—”

“Tommy,” Rachel said before Tommy revealed any more personal details she hadn’t wanted Max to find out this way, “I’m sure the commander knows how much we all appreciate what she and the whole team did out there.”

Max stood. She looked gaunt and worn, but her shoulders were back and her voice clear and strong, as it had been through the seemingly endless interview. “Please be sure to include the other members of the team when you write your story, Mr. Benedict. Because no one out here makes it on their own, and no mission is ever successful just because of one person.”

“I’ll be talking to the others,” Tommy replied.

“Good.” Max nodded to Rachel, her expression as remote as if they were strangers. “Good-bye, Ms. Winslow. I hope you have a safe trip home.”

Rachel rose, but she didn’t have time to protest before Max spun around and left. She only had a minute to make a decision as she started after her. “Tommy, go ahead without me. I’ll find my own way back.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go ahead. I know you want to file your story.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got some unfinished business.” Impatiently Rachel hitched her shoulder bag higher and opened the door. If she didn’t hurry, Max would be gone.

Tommy grasped her arm, his brow furrowed. “What about the security people? Aren’t they supposed to drive us back to the hotel?”

“Damn it, yes.” Rachel spun back to him. “Tommy, I need a favor. Tell Kennedy—that’s the woman—”

Tommy grinned his devil-may-care grin. “I noticed.”

“Tell her I’ll be here a while but that you need to file your story right away. Ask them to drive you to the motor pool or somewhere so you can catch a ride back to the hotel.”

“Ah—where will you be?”

“I’ll be back here in an hour. Tell Kennedy that’s how long I’ll be with the CO.”

“Why do I feel like we’re back at Yale and I’m about to get busted again for sneaking into the sorority house?”

“You did sneak in, and I covered for you so you wouldn’t get suspended. I told you my roommate wasn’t interested, but you wouldn’t listen. That part wasn’t my fault.”

He fingered his jaw. “She didn’t have to deck me.”

“Yes, she did. Now go run a screen for me—I really have to get out of here.”

He kissed her cheek. “All right. But I want to do a follow-up story in Mogadishu and maybe a longer exposé when we get back to the States. You agree?”

“Yes, all right. But get this one filed first. It’s important.”

“It’s a great story. I’ll talk to you soon. Dinner tonight?”

“Yes, of course, if I can.” She just wanted to get away. She wanted, needed, to find Max.

Tommy gathered his briefcase, recorder, and notebooks and left. Rachel forced herself to wait five minutes before searching for an exit that would let her avoid the main entrance in case Kennedy or Smith didn’t buy Tommy’s story and were still outside. She slipped out a side door and hurried toward the road, angling between the adjacent buildings until she was far enough away not to be seen. She hoped.

The last two hours had been hell. She’d known reliving her experiences out in the jungle for Tommy would be difficult, but watching Max withdraw behind a shield of remote indifference had been harder. Max had answered Tommy’s questions, she’d been polite and, as Rachel had expected, had downplayed her own role in the events. But Max had never looked her in the eye after those first seconds when she’d stared at Rachel in confusion, then anger, and finally dismissal. The distance between them was agonizing. Damn Tommy.

Not that he was to blame for his assumptions about her relationship status, but she’d have to make things clearer to quite a few people. First she needed to find Max. She stopped at an intersection and didn’t recognize anything. She’d been walking so fast she hadn’t paid any attention to where she was. Rows and rows of CLUs stretched in every direction. The place was a maze. God, was she lost? She couldn’t be lost. She didn’t have time to be lost. She had to find Max. She half laughed, a painful sound that caught in her chest and tore at her. She was lost and she needed to find Max. Why had it never occurred to her she’d spent so much time avoiding the paths other people laid out for her, she hadn’t been able to see where she wanted to go?

She took a breath, looked around, and picked out a larger building she remembered seeing when she’d been standing on the steps of Max’s CLU. Please let that be the same one. She headed in that direction, checking the markings on the CLUs as she passed. Finally she reached the series of letters she recognized and found Max’s. It looked as it had the first day. Closed and shuttered. Like Max had been when they’d first met. Like she’d been that morning.

Rachel wet her lips, stepped up, and knocked. The silence was so oppressive she had trouble drawing a breath. Sweat misted her temples. Her heart ricocheted around in her chest. She pushed back her hair with both hands and rapped again, louder. “Max, please. Open up.”

The door opened. An African American woman with wary dark eyes and a cautious smile looked out. Her dark green T-shirt and boxers were wrinkled. Her face was creased as if she’d just gotten out of bed.

“Sorry,” Rachel said. “I’m looking for Max.”

The woman tilted her head and squinted against the sun, studying Rachel as if she were an alien presence. “How’d you get here?”

“What? I walked.” Rachel waved behind her. “From—over there.”

“Come on in and get some water. You’ll cook out there.”

The woman held the door and Rachel climbed inside. A blast of cool air hit her and she sighed. “Thanks.”

“Here.” The woman opened a bottle of water and handed it to her. “I’m CC, by the way.”

“Rachel. Sorry if I woke you.” Rachel peered down the length of the CLU, looking for Max.

“You missed her by about fifteen minutes.”

Rachel’s throat tightened. “Where is she?”

“Probably at thirty thousand feet.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Orders came this morning while she wasn’t here. She was due to fly out at ten forty. I helped her pack. Took us under a minute, and she had five to make the airfield. Knowing Max, she did.”

“Fly where?” Rachel said, an ominous stillness seeping through her.

CC grinned. “Stateside.”

Chapter Twenty-six

“Stateside?” Rachel stared at CC, certain she’d heard her wrong. “But…I just saw her. Not even half an hour ago.”

CC shook her head, her wide expressive mouth turning down for an instant at the corners. “Half an hour out here could be a lifetime.”

A chill rippled through Rachel’s chest. A minute out here was a lifetime—or at least life changing. “Are you sure she’s left? Is there any chance I could catch her?”

“I doubt it. When orders come through, sometimes you don’t even have time to pack. And with something like this…” She shrugged. “If there’s a seat on a transport with your name on it, you’ll do anything to fill it. Max probably flagged down someone from the motor pool and caught a ride over to the airfield. I’m sorry.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where she’s going?” Rachel’s thoughts whirled as if in the vortex of a tornado, jumbled fragments spinning around randomly, banging into each other or missing by inches. Making no sense. She’d been running disaster scenarios for the last twenty-four hours—worrying about Max facing Carmody alone, afraid her plan to use Tommy to make Max a public hero would backfire somehow, terrified she couldn’t pull it all off in time. When Max had walked into the room that morning, she’d had to use every bit of her control to maintain her composed façade. All she’d wanted was to jump up and touch her. Instead she’d had to sit there while Tommy interviewed them, pretending to be calm while all the while dying to be alone with Max. Her stomach was on the verge of revolt by the time they’d finished, and then Max had bolted before she could explain.

“If she grabbed a spot on a C-130 she might get a ride straight through to Lejeune or Norfolk.” CC drained a bottle of water and dropped the plastic container into a bucket by her bed along with half a dozen other empties.

“I really need to talk to her.” Rachel hugged her midsection. The thought of never seeing Max again sent a sliver of pain slicing through her.

“She’ll probably be a day or two in transit and then a few more until she’s done with all the separation details. Your best bet is to try tracking her down by phone.”

“Thanks,” Rachel said, her energy finally draining away. She didn’t have a number for her. The idea was almost laughable. She’d put her life in Max’s hands a dozen times. She’d made love with her, for God’s sake, and now Max had vanished and she had no idea where she’d gone. She could find her—she had the connections to do it, if Max even wanted to speak to her after Tommy’s cock-up. She should have told Max everything before…Before what? Before they spent every second working to stay alive, before they fell on each other out of desperation and wild need, before Carmody and his slimy accusations put them in another kind of firefight? Could she possibly have screwed things up more?

Rachel went to the door. “Sorry I got you up.”

“No problem. When you catch up to Deuce in the States,” CC said, “tell her hi for me.”

“Yes,” Rachel said, wondering if that would ever happen. At least Max was safe. Away from whatever quagmire of political blame-placing and manipulation was going on here. She was glad for that. Glad that Max was out of the line of fire. But the emptiness ached more brutally than anything she’d ever known. “I will.”

Steeling herself for the long, hot walk back to headquarters, she stepped outside. A Humvee blocked the road directly in front of the CLU. Kennedy climbed out, a scowl replacing her usual bland expression. Her mouth was set in a tight line, and her brows knotted in the center, creasing her perfect forehead. She jammed her hands on her hips.

“Ms. Winslow.” Kennedy’s voice vibrated with annoyance.

Rachel narrowed her eyes. “I shouldn’t have to remind you I don’t work for you or answer to you, so I won’t.”

Silently, Kennedy opened the rear door for her and held it while Rachel slid in. The door slammed and the Humvee lurched forward. She leaned her head back and stared at the roof. She couldn’t remember ever being so tired, and the last thing she wanted to do was sleep. If she slept, she might dream. If she dreamed, she might remember. The memories were clear enough—terrible enough—while awake. In dreams the horrors took on new life, towering above reason and reality. She wasn’t prepared to risk it—not just yet. If she thought she could close her eyes and dream of Max, she would sleep right there. But she didn’t need to sleep to dream of her either. Her face, her voice, the lingering press of her hands and heat of her mouth surrounded her. God, she wanted her.

Kennedy said from the front seat, “Where would you like to go?”

“The hotel.” Rachel looked out the window as the CLUs faded into a blur of indistinct desert tan. “I’m done here.”

*

Max braced her back against the shuddering side of the C-130’s cavernous belly, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep. The white noise from the droning engine ought to have been enough to drown out her thoughts, but her mind wouldn’t settle. She hadn’t had time to think about anything since she’d gotten back to the CLU and CC had handed her the departure orders, the last thing she’d expected after Carmody’s questions. But her training was ingrained and orders were orders. She didn’t think, she acted, and now here she was rattling around in the dark confines of a cargo plane headed for home. The word didn’t mean much, only a destination, and she didn’t give it much thought. Everything that mattered was behind her and growing more distant by the second.

Her brain struggled to make sense of things. Getting out of Carmody’s sights was a bonus, but she couldn’t quite figure out the how and why of it. A guy like Carmody didn’t quit, and since he hadn’t gotten anything out of her, he couldn’t be done. Her blood chilled. If he was still looking for a scapegoat, that left Grif. No, not Grif. Grif had been unconscious—that was verified and unarguable. That left Rachel.

And she was leaving Rachel behind. Rachel and everything else that had been her life for over a year. Like stepping into a time machine and being instantly transported from one world to another, because that’s what it amounted to. The next time she woke up in her own bed, she wouldn’t be facing the possibility of death at every turn. She wouldn’t be trusting her life to a handful of people—friends—when she set out to do her job. She’d be alone again.

For an instant she wondered if another tour might be the answer. She knew plenty of Joes who re-upped almost as soon as they were stateside. And not just for the reasons the newspapers liked to highlight—the lack of jobs, the strained relationships, the PTSD. Back in the desert, you knew your worth. And when you faced death and won, you were worth plenty.

Heading back to the Iraqi desert or the mountains of Afghanistan wouldn’t get her what she really wanted. Rachel didn’t need her to fight for her. She recalled the way Rachel had looked that morning—comfortable, in control, self-assured. Rachel had already slipped back into her world, her real world. In the jungle, Rachel had been transformed—changed into a different person by the necessity to survive. But they weren’t in the jungle now, and the Rachel Max had known didn’t exist in the world she was headed toward.

*

Somehow, Rachel fell asleep on the bumpy ride back to Djibouti. When the Humvee pulled in beneath the canopy shading the hotel’s large front doors, the change in the engine sound alerted her, and she opened her eyes. Kennedy jumped out and opened her door before she could. Smith joined them and they walked through the lobby together in silence. Smith punched the elevator button and Rachel entered the car automatically. Strange, how everything around her had become monochrome, a world filled with grays. Maybe she was still asleep—sleepwalking, more like it. She leaned against the back wall of the elevator and watched the numbers on the elevator panel flash. She frowned as they sped upward. “I’m on six.”

The elevator was not stopping at any of the other floors. They rode straight to the top and the doors opened. “Where are we going?”

Kennedy stepped out, looked right and left, and said, “Right this way, Ms. Winslow.”

Rachel debated jumping back in the elevator and realized Smith had used a key. She hadn’t really taken note of it at the time. She wouldn’t be able to send the elevator down without it. Lovely.

Kennedy and Smith waited for her to join them. She walked between them down the wide carpeted hall to a door at the end. A Smith clone stood by the door, an earpiece curling behind his left ear. He murmured something into a wrist mic, nodded to Smith, and the door opened from the inside. Kennedy gestured her in.

Half expecting Carmody, Rachel steeled herself and entered a huge suite with French doors opening onto a balcony overlooking the city. She glanced around and her breath caught when she saw the man sitting on a love seat in the lounge area, a table for two laid out in front of him. “Dad?”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Stateside

Max had been back on US soil for ten days, back in New York City half that time, and back to work for close to twenty-four hours. She could have put off returning to the hospital for a few weeks, but why would she? What would she do with herself if she wasn’t working? Her studio apartment in the Village had a reasonable-sized galley kitchen, a bathroom with decent water pressure, and a small living room-sleeping area combined. Perfectly suited to her needs, but not a place where she wanted to spend a lot of time. She slept there, when she slept. When she returned there after a shift, she showered, reheated whatever takeout she’d had for the last meal, slept if she could or went for a run if she couldn’t, and headed back to work. Her real home was the emergency room. She was more at ease in those halls than any place she’d called home except the dirt streets of CLUville. The people were closer to her than any family except her fellow troops. Sure, she wasn’t really close with any of the doctors and nurses and techs she saw every day, but she knew them and they knew her enough to say hello and pass the time in casual conversation. She had human contact. She had a community. She had something to take her mind off what she didn’t have. So she’d called to arrange to return to work even before she’d completed her separation procedures at Lejeune.

Now, at the end of her first shift, part of her at least felt she’d come home. The night had been busy. They usually were with trauma and the emergencies people put off until darkness fell and brought with it the pain and fear that light and activity held at bay. She’d been occupied, body and mind, for long stretches when she didn’t have time to think of anything else. On the off times, when she stopped for coffee or to wait for the next patient to be readied for her, she thought about those she’d left behind. Grif and Amina. And Rachel. And the dark crept into her soul too and brought pain with it.

Pushing aside thoughts of what she couldn’t change, she signed off on the facial laceration she’d just repaired and dropped the chart into the to-be-filed box. She checked the whiteboard for other surgically related cases and saw they’d brought in a gunshot wound while she’d been in the treatment room suturing. The wound must be superficial if they’d triaged the patient to the ER and not directly to trauma. She noted the room number and headed that way. The curtain was partially open and she glanced inside. A young Hispanic male, eighteen according to his chart, lay on the white sheets with his left arm elevated and a bloody bandage wrapped around his hand. No one else was in the room.

“Mr. Diaz,” she said, closing the curtain behind her as she entered. “I’m Dr. de Milles. What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously.

She raised an eyebrow and gestured with a tilt of her head to his hand. “I’m guessing something did.”

“Bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“I know how that is,” she murmured. “Is that the only place you’re hit?”

“Yeah. Ain’t that enough?”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“You the one is gonna fix it?”

“Maybe. Depends on how bad it is.”

He blew out air. “Sure. Why not.”

She pulled gloves from a cardboard box on the counter next to the sink, put them on, and unwrapped his dressing. As she got closer to the ball of loose gauze in the palm of his hand, she said, “This’ll probably hurt a little bit. You ready?”

“Sure,” he said in an almost bored voice, but his body tensed beneath the sheets.

She gently eased the gauze away and inspected the wound. A neat round hole was centered in his palm, blood caked around the edges. His thumb and fingers were posed in a natural position as if he were holding a bottle. That was good. If the tendons or nerves had been severed, the fingers would be lax, as if the strings of a marionette had been cut, making the limbs hang flaccidly. She lifted his wrist and turned his hand over. The exit wound on top was considerably larger, almost twice as big as a quarter, and the edges ragged. With a clean gauze she teased away some of the clot. White tendons like thin rubber bands were visible in the depth of the wound.

“Can you straighten your fingers?”

“Hurts like a mother.” His fingers didn’t move.

“I’m not surprised. But if those tendons aren’t cut, we can clean it out down here and get you out of here. If you’ve got nerve or tendon damage, you need a trip to the OR. And then you’ll be here a while.”

“Fuck that,” he muttered and slowly straightened his fingers.

“Good. Can you close them? Just go slow.”

Once again, he slowly flexed his fingers toward his palm.

“That’s good enough.” She tested sensation in his fingertips and thought as she did about luck. His injury had all the markings of a defensive wound, as if he’d put his hand up to stop the bullet. And perhaps he had. But the bullet did not go through his hand and into his head or his chest or some other vital part of his body. It appeared to have passed through his hand without striking him anywhere else at all. Not only that, none of the critical structures in the incredibly complex anatomy of his hand had been damaged. The wound was no more dangerous than a deep laceration—painful, but neither life-threatening nor debilitating in the long term. He’d been lucky. She’d been sitting next to men who had suddenly fallen over dead from a bullet that skirted beneath their helmets and exploded their heads. She’d seen troops blown into a bloody mist with one misstep on a supposedly safe road that had been cleared by bomb dogs and sweepers. Just bad luck. She’d flown into fire, jumped into hot zones, been feet away from vehicles pulverized by IEDs and here she was, as if she’d never gone away. Unharmed, but changed nonetheless.