Edge Of Truth

He unhooked the rope ladder and tossed it into the hole, then leaned against the concrete beside the gaping second doorway and scoped out the exterior. No movement, no sound. He felt behind him for Tess but his hand hit air. She was leaning over a dead enemy.

“Tess!”

She tugged at something, then ran to him in a loping stride, shouldering an M16 like she knew how.

“What now?” she said breathlessly.

“First, we get out of the light.” Adrenaline surged through his veins and lit up his nerves. This was more like it. “And then I’m going to fucking kiss you.”

* * *

Tess stuck behind Flynn as they sprinted to a patch of darkness, ignoring the bolts of fire in her toes. 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.

“No idea,” he said, throwing the backpack on. “But it’s been pretty fucking ninja so far.”

“Show-off.” Still, her lips curled up. Hey, she adored her brothers, though she’d never let on to them.

Gunfire popped. She gulped. Had they got some innocent driver killed? Flynn stilled, head cocked, gaze locked on hers. The car race had stopped—the engines were idling. He pushed the fence back in place and kicked some scattered rubbish around the break.

“If I’d gone under I would’ve had to make the hole twice as big. With luck they won’t notice till morning, at least. They’ll have to waste resources searching the compound.”

Somewhere a dog howled, answered by several others. Or were they hyenas? Did hyenas howl? Tess looked left, into blackness, and right, also into blackness.

“Seriously, though,” she said, “do you have a plan?”

* * *

Flynn shouldered both rifles. “You’re not easily impressed, are you, sunshine?”

He inhaled deeply. Adrenaline was good for jumping out of pits and scaling fences, but not for strategic thinking. Case in point: his comment about kissing her. Not that the urge had passed—the woman was lighting up dark parts of his brain. The sooner he got her to safety and returned to his unit, the better.

“First, we get out of the open,” he said. “Then we find transport or comms—preferably, both.”

“This is kind of all ‘the open.’”

“See that?” He pointed out a large shape a few hundred meters away, a hulk of charcoal against the dark. “Could be a hut or a vehicle. We shelter there and make a plan.”

Engines revved in the distance, getting louder. “They’re returning.” He ripped the bandage off his head and stuffed it in a pocket—it’d glow like a flare. “Follow in my footsteps but keep a couple of meters behind—there could be old land mines around. Can you run?”

“I can try.”

He set off in a jog, listening for her footfalls to judge his speed. Rocks jarred his feet even through his thick boots. Socks wouldn’t last her long but at least the ground was too hard to hold footprints. Her stride faltered, like she didn’t know which foot to favor. He slowed, though it near killed him.

To their left, a beam of light flashed and skidded across the ground. Damn. Probably just a large flashlight but it meant they had eyes on the ground already.

“Go faster,” she hissed. “I can keep up.”

He obliged. Hamid’s soldiers would split up—searching the compound, the road, the wasteland, then fanning farther out... Would she call in reinforcements? He and Tess would need to be long gone by daybreak or they’d stand out in this dead-flat terrain like hippos in a bathtub. Hamid would guess they were headed for the distant village lights, but what choice did they have—hijack a camel?

As they neared their target, he slowed. Something jutted out at forty-five degrees, aimed their way. A large gun, looming out of an abandoned tank. He skidded around to the far side of it, perched on one of its exposed, trackless wheels and swung the backpack around.

“You planning to start this thing up and roll us out of here?” Tess huffed as she caught up.

“I wish.” He pulled the pocketknife from his combat pants. “It’s a Russian T55.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s been sitting here rusting for thirty years or more. It’ll be from the Ethiopia-Somalia war, abandoned where it was put out of action—or broke down, more likely. Which means we’re probably near the border of the two. Dunno which side, but maybe on the road to Hargeisa.”

“I was taken from Somalia—near Hargeisa—so that would make sense.”

“And me from Djibouti, along the Somali border. Not in such easy striking distance, but they could have used a chopper.”

They’d gone to some lengths to find a French soldier. Was Tess right about Hamid wanting to suck France in? He found his watch in the backpack and strapped it on. They must have screwed up by capturing a legionnaire. The whole point of the legion was to give France an expendable force—he was cannon fodder no one cared about. No one except his frères d’armes. His unit would fight to the death for him. He cricked his neck. He needed to make contact, a-sap.

“What were you doing in Djibouti when you were captured?” she said.

“I’m not at liberty to talk to the media.”

“I’m not writing this down.”

He pulled her boots from the backpack. “Quit asking questions. You might not like the answers.”

Silence.

“No big story,” he conceded. No point firing up her curiosity. “Just on terrorist watch, like always. Guess we hit the jackpot.”

“They’re not—”

“Sunshine, if it looks like a terrorist, smells like a terrorist and shoots like a terrorist, I’m calling it a terrorist. Do you remember anything between being kidnapped and landing in the dungeon?”

“Vague flashes of being on the back of a truck. You?”

“Not a bloody thing.” He stabbed the toe of one of her boots and dug the blade into the leather.

“Hey! That’s the only footwear I have.”

“I’m giving them air-conditioning. We might be on foot awhile. We can duct-tape them later.” He sawed the toe off one side. “Or you can buy more with your superstar salary. Try this.”

She slipped it on, wincing as she worked her foot in. “Do you really think there are land mines here?”

He started on the second boot. “Abandoned land is often abandoned for a reason out here. But these thorn bushes and acacias have been cut back recently—for cooking fires or goat pens—so we’re probably safe.” A shout sailed out from the compound. “Relatively. You gotta watch the scrubby areas that are untouched.”

“Are we heading for those lights—the village, or whatever it is?”

“We don’t want to be in the open come morning. Here.” He passed her the boot.

“That’s where they’ll expect us to go,” she said, her voice tight, anticipating pain.

“That’s because it makes the most sense.”

She forced a thin-lipped smile and yanked up the laces. A shaft of light landed beside the tank, casting a shadow of the gun. He gripped her leg in warning—needlessly, it turned out, seeing as she was tense as concrete. Voices drifted over, conversational rather than urgent. Hopefully Hamid assumed he and Tess had headed out the gate, and had sent only a couple of schmucks around back to cover their bases. The light lingered on the tank’s turret, then moved on in a steady sweep. He realized he was still holding her, right around the thigh. He let go.

“Don’t suppose you know how to use one of those?” He nodded to the weapons beside them.

“I did some skeet shooting growing up, and I’ve shot an AR-15 in a firing range, but only on...”

He picked up a rifle and ejected the clip. Nearly full. He checked the next one. Full. “Only on...?”

She finished tying her laces and stood, testing a few steps. “Only on dates.”

“You messing with me? What kind of guy are you dating?”

“The wrong kind. And sometimes I go to the firing range with my mom and brothers. Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays—we’ve always been a little...competitive. I’ve never used one of those, though. Is it an M16?”

“Yep.” He gave her the 101 of readying and firing. Dating the wrong guy, huh? And that information had zero relevance. She was a celebrity; he was a recluse and planned to stay that way. Not a combination that’d work. Well, any relationship involving him wouldn’t work.

He shortened the sling to fit her frame and fitted it over her shoulder. “For you, this is a last resort. Your clip’s nearly full, so you have enough for four bursts. Don’t use it needlessly—and don’t use it on me.”

“Depends on the circumstances,” she said, with not nearly enough of a teasing tone.

“Don’t forget who busted you out.” And who’d had his arms around her much of the day. He’d lain awake for the last half hour of their nap while he’d mentally run through his plan, trying not to think about how soft her skin felt and how neatly she fit into him. Sicko. “You good to go?”

“You’re speaking Australian again.”

Bugger. When had he switched? “Told you my English is all over the place.”

He peered around the hull. Might as well stick with Australian now—the less his brain had to compute, the better. He’d be rid of her soon enough, and then he could ease back the paranoia lever.

The searchlight had moved off. Headlights trailed along the road, toward the village. Out in nowhere land, maybe three klicks away, a warm light flickered. Campfire. Probably nomadic herders—little chance of a phone there. With no moon, stars lit the sky like holes in a sieve. He scanned the horizon.

“The village is to the west. Hopefully the road continues the other side so we won’t have to pass the compound on the way out of town.” West was more likely to mean civilization—Addis Ababa, or maybe they could scoot back up to Djibouti. North likely meant Somalia, east a whole lot of nothing.

“How do you know the village is west of us, if you don’t know where we are?” She tugged the laces of her second boot.

Man, she was the suspicious type. He pointed above their heads. “I checked the map.”

“You can navigate by the stars?”

“You got a compass?”

Satisfied with her boots, she tipped her head back. “Prove it.”

He grunted. What a pain in the arse. He didn’t need to prove anything, but if it made her ease up on the interrogation... “North Star.” He pointed. “We’re about ten degrees north of the equator so you look about ten degrees above the horizon. The rest is easy. Bit of trust here?”

“Show-off.”

“You asked. Time we moved. But first we need to dirty up your T-shirt.”

“I’ve been wearing it for a week—it’s not dirty enough?”

“I can still see some white—it’ll show up like a reflector if that light catches it. Here.” He picked up a handful of soil, grabbed her wrist and dropped it in her palm. “Spit on this and rub it into the front. I’ll do the back. We’ll turn it into desert cammies.”

He picked up another handful and moved behind her. He could almost cover her back in a single hand span. She was all shoulder blades, spine and ribs—she’d gone easy on the MREs. Lucky he was into curves. Just you remember that, soldier.

“You like this stuff, don’t you?”

“What stuff?” Having his hands all over a beautiful woman? Too right. He liked her, that was the problem. She lit him up and she wound him up. A dangerous combination.

“Playing soldiers.”

“I am a soldier. It’s no game.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t that why you joined up—you wanted to make the computer games a reality? Dive inside that Xbox?”

“You’re fishing for information.” And way off the mark. He’d been one year off an engineering degree when that journalist bitch outed him. With the walls closing in, he’d fled to Paris. Before that he’d been more into “Tetris” than “Call of Duty.” “Is that why your brothers joined up? And your boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she snapped.

“Whoa.” Mission Change of Subject accomplished. He spun her. “Your face is glowing.” He smoothed the dirt in his hands over her cheeks, nose and forehead before running his fingers around her neck and into the exposed V of her chest. She took a sharp breath. A few inches lower and—

Shut it down. “Better,” he said.

She clicked her tongue. “And I just cleaned my face.”

“Waste of time out here, if you’re playing soldiers or not.” He ripped a strip of reflective metallic fabric off the bag and pocketed it, and rolled the rest in the dirt. “Same rules apply—keep your distance and step where I step. Sound’s gonna travel, so we go steady and careful. I do this...” He brought his palm level with the ground and lowered it, quickly. “We drop flat. If their lights pick us up, we run like lightning.” His gaze slid to her feet. “If you can. And try not to step on anything shiny.”

“What should I do if something goes click?”

He grimaced. “It won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It’ll just go bang.”

“O-kay. Nice reassurance.”

“You want reassurance, hire a life coach. We’ll stick to tracks wherever possible—human, goat, donkey, camel... And, hey, if this area is mined, Hamid’s soldiers might not come after us.”

“I guess there’s that.”

“Ready?”

“After you, Lieutenant.”

CHAPTER 5

Tess’s instincts ping-ponged with red alerts. She focused on following Flynn’s boots, trying to ignore the pressure in her toes and the hyperawareness of every noise. Not that there was much sound, bar her panting and the distant drone of vehicles.

Maybe a mile away, maybe five, three sets of headlights crept parallel to them, casing the road. Flynn’s head was skewed in that direction, his hands cradling his rifle. He’d better be looking out for shiny things, too—she’d met too many people in this part of the world with missing limbs.

Her chest tightened at the thought of putting her fate in the hands of a stranger, even one who made her stomach do flippy things. Especially one who made her stomach do flippy things. Rule number one in Africa: beware of the strangers who approached you, who tried to befriend you, to offer directions or some other “help.” They were the ones with an agenda—invariably involving relieving you of money. If you needed help, you sought out the ordinary people keeping to themselves, plying honest trades. Which category did Flynn fall into? Maybe falling drugged from the sky wasn’t the same as sidling up to her at a bus station, but he was hiding something. He wasn’t bothering with the French accent anymore. He had to be Australian.

A stone flicked off his boot and rocketed onto her exposed left sock, shooting fire up to her shin. She stumbled to a halt, scooching in a breath.

Flynn spun. “You okay?” She bent double, her eyes watering. He crouched and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Your toes?”

“Stone,” she gasped. Wow, she was such a princess. It was only a freaking toe. Who knew they could hurt so much? Flynn had a gaping head wound.

“You want me to carry you?”

“Hell, no.” She managed an expansive breath. The pain would settle—she just had to wait it out. “I’m good. Keep going.”

“If you need a break, I’m serious about carrying you. You probably weigh less than the backpack.”

She straightened. He kept his hand on her shoulder. He could be right. She hadn’t been eating well since she started chasing this story. The stress diet. Maybe she should quit journalism, write a diet book, make millions.

In the distance a pair of headlights flared—too far off for the beam to reach her and Flynn, but resolutely aimed their way.

“Flynn, the car’s turning.”

“I see it.”

“What do we do?”

“We hope. They get too close, we hit the deck, make like rocks and hope some more. It’s a massive patch of land and a dark night, so if their lights don’t get a direct hit we might be okay. Even then we might get lucky if our camouflage works. You sure you’re good to move?”

“Yes. Go.”

He released her. She swayed. She hadn’t realized how much she was letting him prop her up—in all sorts of ways.

It had to be healthy that she recognized she was in danger of falling for him—out of some sense of fear or gratitude, perhaps, some outdated feminine impulse to secure protection. And if she was aware of it, she could damn well make a conscious decision to resist it.

She settled back into his stride, faster now, the rifle bouncing against her back. Maybe that was why her instinct was going mental, like the mouse mom’s. Not because there was something familiar in his face, but because her brain was intent on protecting her from another Kurt-esque debacle. Clever brain. She should let it take charge more often.

The closest headlights grew bigger and brighter. Another light swept from the side of the vehicle—someone hanging out the passenger seat with a flashlight. The village lights weren’t getting any closer. Flynn was near sprinting, Tess stumbling along behind as if he were dragging her on a tow rope. Her breath was getting shallower, her toes jarring with the shock of each step. Tough it out. A good run wouldn’t kill her. Plenty else around here would.