Pain was just her nerves yelling to her brain that there was a problem. She knew there was a problem—her nail beds were pulpy masses of blood and goo—so her nerves could shut the hell up.
Her brain threw together a jumpy picture of her surroundings. It wasn’t the concrete-walled compound she’d imagined, more a sprawl of huts ringed by a ten-foot chain-link fence. Ahead, beyond an open gate, was a dirt road, otherwise there was a whole lot of dark nothing. A desert? Crap. Urgent voices carried from the far side of the bunker—half a dozen goons getting closer. Far off to the right was a sprinkling of lights—a village? A pair of headlights bumped toward them along the road. She couldn’t hear the engine over her own panting.
Light spilled from a hut next to the gate. A gatehouse. It looked deserted—the guards must have rushed to the bunker. A lucky break but they’d have to be quick. She sped up—and was yanked back.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
Flynn’s hand encircled her biceps. “It’s exactly where they think we’ll go.”
“That’s because it makes the most sense.” She tried to tear free but he held tight. “We could flag down the car.”
“Again, that’s what they’d expect us to do.”
She clenched her teeth. “Again, that’s because it makes sense.”
“Got a better idea. Trust me.” His eyes glittered. Green, definitely.
Stop it.
Trust him? Right now instinct urged her to, but instinct had got her into bad places where men were concerned. Still, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with his survival instincts. If he got them to safety, she’d return the favor and ditch him. She didn’t need another death on her tab.
“Fine,” she said.
She followed him behind a small wooden shack near the fence. A hole-in-the-ground toilet, by the smell of it. She pressed her back into its rear wall, and he did the same. Sheltered from view, for now.
The car neared, its headlights lighting them up. Flynn leveled his rifle.
“You’re not going to shoot it?”
“Nope,” he whispered, tracing its progress with the barrel. When it was a foot or two past the gate he opened fire. She smacked her palms over her ears, craning her neck. What the hell? Dust rose along the path of the bullets, lit red by the taillights. He’d missed. Was that good or bad? The car revved, tires squealing. Footsteps and shouts sounded from the compound, closer now. A woman barked orders. Hamid.
The car bumped and skidded, engine straining. Poor guy driving it had to be terrified.
“What the hell was th—?”
“Wait,” he whispered, hardly louder than if he’d mouthed it. Something soft touched her ear—his lips. His hand pressed on her thigh. Just a warning to keep it together, that he had this under control—like hell—but she allowed herself to close her eyes for a second, to breathe. Whatever his plan, she had no choice but to go along with it. This kind of situation had to be his day at the office.
Sheesh, he’d promised to kiss her back there. A throwaway comment, obviously, but it’d heated her up all the same, just as his lips and hand were doing now. Man, she was messed up. How soon could PTSD set in? Was that also the reason for her paranoia about him? Well, paranoia was part of her job, but she was finding whole new levels.
Great, so now she was paranoid about being paranoid.
A vehicle door opened and slammed. And another. One, two, three more. An engine growled to life. Wheels skidded. Another engine started and whined into a crescendo as it accelerated, tires crunching along the rocky road. The fleeing car reached panic pitch.
So that was Flynn’s plan—make Hamid and her goons think Tess and Flynn had flagged down the car. God—imagine if they had? If it had been her choice... As the cars left and their noise faded, Hamid’s voice rang out. A one-sided conversation—on a phone? She could be speaking English, but Tess couldn’t make out the words over the pulse pummeling her eardrums. Behind them, a guy shouted. Another answered.
The compound was otherwise quiet. Flynn had taken out four or five goons. Maybe five more had left in the cars. How many were left? They all had to be focused on that car, having assumed Flynn’s gunfire had come from one of their guys in pursuit. And the driver had, naturally, hoofed it, making the car the target Flynn wanted it to be. Two birds, one stone. Smart—and ruthless.
Flynn appeared to be tracking something, out of her vision. Hamid’s voice receded—she was walking to the gate? His hand left Tess’s thigh and he silently lined up a shot. She settled her breath like it was her finger on the trigger. A man’s shout. Footfalls across the compound, toward Hamid. Flynn pressed back into the building, lowering the rifle, and gave a quick shake of the head. No shot. He gestured that Tess should lead them along the fence line, behind the buildings. Back into the compound? No kidding he was winging it. But, hey, if it confounded her, it’d confound Hamid.
She peered around her side of the shack, away from the gate. No one. She scampered into the open, her breath catching, and slipped into the darkness behind the next building. A few feet separated its concrete wall from the fence. How long until Hamid’s goons caught up with the car and figured out the truth?
Rocks pricked her feet through her socks. At least her tread was silent, though the car rally out front would mask a wildebeest stampede. Flynn walked so quietly she had to check he was following. Was that something military guys practiced—tiptoeing drills?
The fence didn’t let up. They came to a corner, near a long, low concrete building with barred windows and several doors opening to a veranda. Dark and quiet.
“We’ll have to go over the fence,” Flynn whispered.
“I don’t think I can. My toes—I wouldn’t be able to get a grip.”
He frowned, first at her feet, then at the fence. He could leave her behind, of course, but self-preservation stopped her suggesting it. If he was a selfish guy, it would occur to him. If not, he’d refuse.
“Wait here,” he said.
“Where are you—?”
He’d gone. Her breath hitched. Maybe he was the selfish type. He tried the first door in the building and pushed it open, leading with his rifle. He disappeared inside. After a silent, tense half a minute, he reappeared and did the same with the next door, and the next. He jogged back, something glinting in his hand—a pocketknife.
He knelt at the fence and slashed, the clinking and tearing echoing through the rear of the compound. She cringed.
“Give me the bag and your weapon.”
He slid them under the fence and lifted the makeshift flap. She shimmied through, the back of her head brushing his arm, followed by her shoulders, back and butt. She reached back to do the same for him but he retreated a few paces, charged, flew at the fence, clung on about halfway up, cleared the top in some flippy maneuver and landed at her feet, knees bent. Nimble and quiet as a kitten.
“What now?” she said, trying not to sound impressed. Exactly the kind of stunt her brothers liked to pull. He could just as quickly have shimmied under.
