style="font-size:15px;"> A grunt. She’d have to find out for herself. Maybe they’d sedated him with the same drug they’d used on her after they’d dragged her from the Land Rover. She glided her hands over his curved back. No sign of injury—nothing but hard ridges of muscle, under a thick cotton jacket. At his shoulders, her finger caught in a loop. An epaulet. Military? An enemy soldier to Hamid and the al-Thawra network was likely to be an ally to her—and there’d be more where he came from.
Unless his team was dead, as hers might well be. Her cameraman had taken a volley of bullets within seconds of the ambush. Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face—the flicker of disbelief and realization before he slumped, lifeless. Just a young Zimbabwean news junkie who thought working with her would propel him into the big time, and all it got him was... She sucked in air through clenched teeth.
Her translator better still be alive. Last she’d seen him, al-Thawra thugs were dragging him feetfirst along a stony road. He was just an honest, reliable local dad who’d needed the money. Had she been explicit enough about the risk of working for her, about the need for secrecy? He’d been so eager for the job. If she’d got him killed, too...
No. Cling to hope. She’d been the target, not him.
She dipped two fingers under the soldier’s collar and scooped. No dog tag. Thick, corded neck, suede buzz cut. His crown was hot and...sticky. Ugh. She snapped her hand away. Had to be blood. He moaned. A bit of light would be handy—she’d rather not stick her fingers in his brain.
“You’ve got a wound up here. I’m going to check it. Hold still.”
Like he was capable of anything else. She closed her useless eyes and brushed her fingertips over the spot. An inch-long gash gaped over a lump the size of half a tennis ball. Ouch.
“It’s not too bad,” she said. Like she had any idea. “I have a first-aid kit.”
He needed sutures, but alcohol wipes and adhesive strips would have to do. God help him if it got infected down here. He muttered again. She caught a guttural R. Definitely French, maybe from Djibouti—no other army this side of the Congo would speak French. Or L’armée de Terre? But why would a French soldier be out here?
“Is anything else hurting?” Silence. “I’m just going to check.”
She leaned over him, her knees touching his back. Her hair slipped loose. She looped and twisted it into a knot. One benefit of hair that hadn’t seen shampoo in a week—it was greasy enough to tie without a band.
She ran her fingers over his shoulder and a rolled sleeve, down to his right hand. Jesus, the guy had muscles. As she slid her fingertips into his palm, his hand closed. Just a reflex, but she gave in to it, letting the flicker of comfort shoot right up to her chest.
“Merci, madame.”
The deep words came from so low in his throat she could have imagined them—she’d been imagining a lot of crazy things lately. Maybe not a reflex, then? She squeezed back.
“De rien,” she said, her choked R giving away her rusty tourist French. God, was he ever welcome, whoever he was. She shouldn’t be thankful some other luckless schmuck had wound up here.
Reluctantly, she eased her hand from his. He’d be more comfortable on the mattress but first she should make sure moving him wouldn’t worsen any injuries. She patted his stomach, then stroked up. At his chest, hard pecs tightened. Nothing wrong with those reflexes.
His neck and jaw were rough with stubble—almost a beard—rising up to a sharp, smooth cheekbone and speed bumps of tiny wrinkles beside his right eye. His forehead was unlined, though a little rough and peeling. The skin between his eyes was bunched into two crevasses. Was this how blind people built a picture of someone? The bones were in the right places, though the nose felt wonky. He didn’t recoil when she skated her fingertips along it, and there was no open wound. An old break, perhaps.
“Can you roll onto your back?”
He sighed, and seemed to understand, shifting and resettling and—she guessed from the sound of rubbing fabric—straightening his legs. He was moving freely enough. She checked his other arm. A gravelly graze on his elbow but otherwise okay. The fingers of that hand didn’t curl around hers. Which was fine.
She skipped the business part of his trousers—nothing much she could do about that if it wasn’t working, and she already knew there wasn’t a thing wrong with his butt. His legs felt fine. Very fine—powerful thighs slid into long, strong calves. His trousers—combat pants, presumably, given the number of pockets—were tucked into socks. His boots were intact. Best leave them on—in this filth, his feet were better off contained.
“Back in a sec,” she murmured.
She felt her way to the mattress and found her backpack, which had been ransacked for everything but her first-aid kit and a few toiletries. No phone, no laptop, no documents, no notes—little more than Band-Aids, sunscreen and lip gloss. I need you to stay pretty for my videos, Hamid had said, shoving the backpack into Tess’s stomach.
Hamid had stood there, a few feet from where Tess now sat, flicking through her notebook. You’ve been trying to find my base. Congratulations, my friend. You succeeded. If I’d known you were so keen to drop in, I would have invited you much sooner.
How did you find me? Tess had demanded.
The same way I usually find people. The same way I found your whistle-blower, the traitor Latif. Hamid held up Tess’s phone. With the help of America’s very useful National Security Agency. My job is a bit like yours, you know. It’s all about the contacts.
That’s impossible. I was careful. She hadn’t been online in a fortnight. She’d been using burner phones, contacting no one she knew. We were all careful.
Not all, Hamid said. Not all. Your translator texted his wife several times.
Tess’s face went cold, all over again. She removed the first-aid kit from her backpack. She could do nothing for her crew now but she could help this soldier. Returning to him, she coaxed his head onto her lap, cradling his shoulders with her thighs while keeping her bandaged feet clear.
What had this guy done to incur al-Thawra’s wrath? Or was Hamid trying to draw France into their phony conflict?
“I’m going to clean the cut on your head. It might sting a little.”
At his solid weight, a memory flashed up of her final weekend with Kurt, when he’d taken leave and met her in Cairo. Ugh. Turned out even a Medal of Honor didn’t make a man honorable—even if half of America swooned over him. No more military heroes for her.
Next time she’d go for a dependable small-town accountant whose chief attribute was loyalty. Someone who could be relied on to come home after work—alive, and not smelling of another woman. Charm and bravado spelled trouble. She frowned. That was if she got a chance at a next time and didn’t end up in two pieces like the last unfortunate American kidnapped by Hamid.
She ripped open an alcohol wipe and ran it over her hands. Working on feel and guesswork, she smoothed the next few wipes over the lump, wringing out the alcohol so it dripped on the wound. He hissed, his shoulders tensing against her.
That’d have to do—she was low on wipes, and she might need to change the dressing in a day or two, if they both lasted that
