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.