“Fuck. What about my balls?” Grif fumbled for his crotch, stretching the IV tubing extending from his arm.

“Stop fussing. I haven’t checked them personally yet,” Max said flatly, “but from the location of the entry wound, I think you’re safe there.”

“Keep them that way.”

“Trust me, your balls are my utmost concern.”

Grif’s mouth twitched into a grin. “Fuck, it hurts, Deuce.”

“I know.” She pushed the Demerol. The dose was calibrated for an average-sized man, but Grif wasn’t average sized. The narcotic would help with the pain but it wouldn’t obliterate it, and she couldn’t give him any more. His BP was too low, and she didn’t know how long they’d be out in the field. She didn’t want to run out. “The Demerol will kick in shortly, but I’m going to need to get a look underneath this bandage. That’s gonna hurt a lot more in a minute or two.”

“Great.” Grif turned his head, struggling to focus on Max. His pupils were pinpoint and divergent. The Demerol was starting to work. “What about the target? We get her out?”

“Not yet.” Max glanced toward the door where Rachel squatted, staring out, the assault rifle held stiffly away from her body as if it were a wild thing that might bite her. A rare slice of sunlight illuminated the side of her face. Her shoulder-length hair had come loose from its tie and lay in soft tangles on her shoulders. Her jaw was long and shapely, her cheekbones delicately arched, her nose straight above the whimsical mouth. Her eyebrows were distinct and subtly arched. A laceration marred her cheek just below her right eye, and a smear of blood discolored the skin over her jaw. Even bruised, bloody, and dirt-smudged, her face was an arresting combination of strength and beauty.

Max had witnessed her strength, physical and emotional, seconds earlier when Rachel had insisted on carrying Grif despite the rounds whizzing by their heads. Unfortunately, Rachel was also stubborn and prone to ignore authority. Personally, Max would prefer Rachel be a little less brave and a lot more pliable, but she’d worry about that later. She realized the woman, the target, had become Rachel to her sometime in the last half hour, and she pushed that strange and unwelcome realization aside. She needed to concentrate on priorities, and the first was keeping Grif from bleeding to death. She didn’t doubt for a single second that someone would come for them if she could keep them all alive. She just wasn’t sure how she was going to do that.

“Anything out there?” Max asked as she broke open another pack of hemostatic gauze and a new pressure bandage.

“No. Not that I can see.” Rachel blinked against the bright sunlight illuminating the center of the clearing. When had the sun come up? She strained to see into the shadows where the jungle canopy obscured the demarcation between the bare ground around the tents and the nearby undergrowth. She imagined she could see a hundred pairs of eyes peering out at her, the glint of sunlight off a hundred rifle barrels, and the menacing faces of enemies everywhere. Dacar’s body and that of another guard lay not more than twenty feet from where she knelt, but already they seemed unrecognizable to her. Their features had not changed all that much, but the absence of life left them looking vacant and empty, as if they had never been vibrant human beings with goals and ambitions and fears and joys. How could this have happened? Of course, rationally she knew how it could happen. She was in the middle of a country that had been at constant war for more than two decades, in a continent where almost every country had a centuries-long history of internecine strife. She knew the risks, but her mind rebelled against the senselessness of it all.

The Red Cross was recognized around the world for its humanitarian goals and its careful neutrality. She and her coworkers had come to help the very people whom the rebels purported to represent—the native Somalis, the people of this land. She’d seen the briefing reports. She knew that Islamist extremists had joined forces with the rebels, strengthening and feeding their militant might and fervor. But why had they attacked the camp?

Her father had warned her the area was no longer safe, but if he’d known they were about to be attacked, he would have told her. Maybe he had, in his own way. He’d insisted she be ready to leave just before dawn. Maybe the attack had come early. Maybe he’d breached security to contact her at all. She wanted to believe that, but none of it really mattered any longer. She was here now, and her father and all his resources and power could not change that.

She checked over her shoulder to see how Grif was doing. Max knelt by his side, speaking in short curt phrases to Amina, her movements rapid and sure as she worked. She was more than just a soldier. The caduceus on her collar spoke to that, but how could a healer justify the violence of war? The two extremes were impossible for Rachel to reconcile. All the same, she was glad Max was here, because she suspected she and Amina would both be dead without her. They still might be.

“Where are they?” Rachel asked, almost wishing she could see someone. She didn’t want to shoot anyone, but she didn’t want to sit here waiting to be shot either.

“They’re probably gone,” Max said in her level, emotionless way. “The rebels are known for their hit-and-run tactics. Once the birds opened up on them, they probably decided they’d had enough of a fight for one day.”

“Will they be back?”

“Possibly. Do you have anything here of particular value?”

“I don’t know what they would consider of value.”

Max smiled faintly and wrapped some kind of external pressure device around Grif’s leg. “Good point. Weapons?”

Rachel shook her head. “Only what Dacar…” Her throat suddenly closed on the name. She didn’t know him very well. He’d been a quiet, reserved man, but his smile had been friendly and he seemed competent and professional. She only saw the others briefly whenever they changed shifts and came in to eat before returning to their tents to sleep or talk quietly among themselves. She’d never known anything about them beyond their names. “Only what the guards were carrying. We have no money.”

Amina spoke up. “We have the hospital. Equipment, medicine, drugs. And we have food.”

Max grimaced. “Yes. And those are valuable commodities. If they’re aware that you have these things, they’ll be back.”

“What are we going to do?” Rachel surprised herself with the question, realizing she had automatically assumed that Max de Milles would be in charge from now on. Why had she done that? She never looked to others to solve her problems or protect her. The answer was simple and unavoidable. She was completely out of her depth. She knew nothing about the waging of war, only the consequences.

“My team will be back,” Max said.

“How can you be sure?” Rachel asked.

Max’s brows, two heavy dark slashes above intense blue-black eyes, lowered. “They’ll be back.”

“But they don’t know we’re alive.”

“It doesn’t matter. We don’t leave anyone behind—and we make no distinction between the living and the dead.”

The way she said it, as if for her life and death were indistinguishable, chilled Rachel’s heart. Was this what war did, crushed the emotions, obliterated the value of life? Or was it that in order to wage war, one must already have lost one’s humanity?

Chapter Seven

“I’m going to take this dressing off,” Max said to Amina. “There will be more bleeding.”

“I’ve seen blood before,” Amina said, her voice almost sad.

“Okay. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Max pulled on a clean pair of gloves and gently removed the old bandage, trying not to dislodge any clot that might have formed. Bright red blood spurted onto her sleeve, and she pressed a finger over the femoral artery above the inch-wide entrance wound in the center of the fleshy part of Grif’s upper left leg. The wound was through and through, with a ragged exit hole four times as big on the back. His balls were fine, he’d be happy to learn, but from the nature of the bleeding, the round had nicked a branch of the big artery in his thigh. If they were lucky, it was just a branch. If the femoral was hit, they were in deep shit.

Grif had lapsed into semiconsciousness again, partly narcotic effect and partly blood loss. His vitals had stabilized, but he was rocky. The golden hour—the optimal time period to transport the wounded from the field to a forward hospital for definitive care—was about up, and she doubted they’d be extracted anytime soon. All she’d done so far was control the immediate threat, but that wasn’t going to be enough if the bleeding continued.

Amina gave Max a worried glance. “How is he?”

“Better than he was. You don’t need to squeeze the fluid in anymore.” Max finished applying the new dressing and sat back on her heels. She capped one of the IVs and connected a fresh bag of saline to the line running into his left arm. Four liters in already. Much more and she’d need to start worrying about his lungs and fluid overload. “Could you bring one of those chairs over here? I’ll hang his IV from it so you don’t have to keep holding it.”

“Of course.” Amina retrieved a folding chair from in front of the long table holding the communication equipment and placed it next to Grif’s shoulder. “I think there are blankets in the back. Should I get some to cover him?”

“That would be good. Thanks.” Max propped up the IV bag and rubbed her face. Amina had been as steady while Max changed Grif’s dressings as if she’d had battlefield experience, and maybe in her own way she had. Violence was a way of life in this place. “You did great.”

Amina smiled almost shyly and went to retrieve the blankets. Max rose, stretched the cramps from her lower back, and checked her watch. Seven hundred hours. She felt as if they’d been inside the sweltering tent with its stale, oppressive air for a week already. Her shirt stuck to her back with cold sweat despite the heat, and she loosened her clamshell body armor and set her equipment belt on the floor next to Grif. Now that he was stable for the moment, she had to deal with the rest of their situation. She joined Rachel at the door and looked out.