“Adam Smith, Ms. Winslow.” He held out his hand. “We’re from your father.”

“That was fast.”

“Fortunately, we were…at the embassy.”

That didn’t tell her anything, and she doubted Kennedy and Smith would elaborate. All manner of people were stationed at foreign embassies, especially in areas of active military engagement: diplomats, Foreign Service attaches, journalists, and agents from all branches of intelligence. Her two new bodyguards could be anyone. They probably weren’t any happier with their babysitting assignment than she was to have them. She sighed. “What’s going on?”

Both shook their head. Kennedy spoke first. “We’re just here to accompany you until you leave for the States. Accommodations have been arranged for you near the embassy. We’ll drive you back to your quarters here so you can pick up your things.”

Rachel snorted. “I’m afraid what you see is what there is. I didn’t exactly have time to pack a bag, and I don’t need to retrieve my military issue toothbrush.”

Abigail colored. “Yes, sorry about that. We’ll see that whatever you need is provided.” She stepped back and gestured to the Humvee. “If you’d like to go now.”

“What I’d like is a ride to the base hospital. There’s someone I need to see.”

Neither of them moved.

“You are here to accompany me, isn’t that right? Well,” Rachel said, striding down the stairs, “I’m going to the hospital. If you’d like to tag along, fine.”

She started walking back in the direction she’d come from that morning. She’d paid attention to the route from the hospital to Max’s, and she thought she could get reasonably close. If she got lost, anyone she passed would be able to direct her. She’d be more than happy to do without her escort. Kennedy and Smith might be exactly who they said they were—two people who had been handy to be reassigned to a protective detail for a few days. But she didn’t trust them. Right now, she didn’t trust anyone except Max, Grif, and Amina.

Sweat broke out everywhere after a few steps. The temperature was already close to a hundred, and breakfast was a long time ago. So was sleep. She hadn’t thought about either one when she’d been with Max. Those moments inside the CLU were as far away from the heat and desolation of this place as the stars were from earth. Max and the way Max made her feel—alive and free and more connected than she’d ever been—were all that mattered. She would have been happy to stay there for the rest of her life. She would be happy to be anywhere with Max for the rest of her life. Rachel’s legs trembled, and the trembling had nothing to do with the heat or hunger or fatigue. Max. All the many fascinating sides of Max flashed through her mind—Max with a warrior’s strength and sense of purpose, her eyes gleaming with determination; Max with a surgeon’s skill and supple hands, defeating death; Max, comforting her with tenderness and understanding. Max was like no one she had ever known and she wasn’t letting her go.

The Humvee pulled up alongside her. Kennedy spoke from the passenger side. “Please get in, Ms. Winslow. We’ll be happy to drive you.”

“Thank you.” Rachel climbed into the back. She needed to conserve her strength. It might be a long time before she slept again. The ten-minute drive passed in silence, and she tried not to let her thoughts wander to what might be happening to Max. Every time she did, fear reared up from the recesses of her mind and her heart raced and her stomach turned over. Max was in trouble, and while Max might have tried to convince her she was no part of whatever was happening, she knew better. She’d been part of it from the beginning. If she hadn’t been out there in the jungle, those Black Hawks wouldn’t have been either. Maybe even the rebels wouldn’t have been there. Max and Grif certainly wouldn’t have ended up fighting to keep them all alive, and probably Max would not be caught up in the middle of whatever political game was being played out right now. But whatever had brought them all together, she’d always been part of it.

And what was happening now was no different than what had happened out in the jungle. She and Max, possibly Grif, and maybe even Amina were under attack. The enemy wore a different uniform and was coming in the daylight and not the dark, but they were no less dangerous. She wasn’t leaving Max or Grif or Amina. She didn’t have a rifle, but she had other weapons.

The Humvee pulled up in front of the hospital and she climbed out. The front doors of the vehicle opened, and Kennedy put one long, slim leg down on the ground.

Rachel blocked her exit. “There’s no need for you to come in. I’m sure this thing has air-conditioning. I won’t be long.”

Kennedy looked over her shoulder at Smith, who shrugged. Finally Kennedy pulled her leg back into the vehicle and closed her door. Rachel retraced her route through the hospital to the office where she’d inquired earlier about Max and Grif. The same ensign, a fresh-faced redhead with honest-to-God freckles who’d helped her then, was still on duty. He pushed some papers aside and grinned up at her when she approached his desk. “Ms. Winslow, you’re back.”

She smiled and read his name tag. “Good memory, Ensign Feeny. Is Lieutenant Griffin awake yet? I’d really like to see him.”

“Let me check for you. He sure is popular.”

Rachel kept her smile in place. “Is that right?”

“Yep. I’ve had half a dozen calls about him already this morning.”

“Well, you must have a line wanting to visit, then.”

Feeny shook his head. “Not yet. I’m supposed to call HQ when he wakes up.” He shrugged sheepishly and gestured to the piles of forms on his desk. “I’m a little behind.”

“I know how that is. If you could point me to him, I’ll get out of your way.”

“Oh no, ma’am, I’m happy for the company.”

“Thanks,” she said, impatience bubbling in her throat. HQ wanted a call. Captain Pettit might just want a status report on one of his wounded. All sorts of people would need to be notified, including family. All of that could be nothing out of the ordinary, but she didn’t think so. She could still see Carmody sitting by Pettit’s desk, looking smug and predatory.

Feeny rose. “Come on. He’s in a regular berth now.”

He walked her down a series of hallways with curtained cubicles on either side. She caught glimpses as she passed of beds, some of them empty, others occupied with men and women sleeping or reading or staring into space. The place was clean and brightly lit and smelled of the things hospitals usually did—food, antiseptic, pain.

Feeny pushed aside a curtain and motioned her into a space with two beds, two matching metal tables side by side between them, and a window above. The tan walls were bare and bleak. One bed was empty. Grif slept in the other. A stand on wheels stood at the end of his bed with a pitcher of water and a medical chart.

“Thank you,” Rachel said quietly. Feeny nodded and left. She moved a metal chair from the corner next to Grif’s bed and sat down. He was a big man, but he’d seemed so much bigger out there in the jungle, even injured. Maybe it was because his combat gear was gone, or maybe the sterile, artificial purity of the white sheet covering him diminished him somehow, but he seemed smaller, frailer. She missed the streaks of camouflage below his eyes. She even missed the smudges of dirt. He and Max had both looked so foreign and frightening in those first few chaotic seconds. She saw Max as she’d first encountered her—pointing a rifle at her, a fierce expression beneath the war paint and the grime. She thought of Max as she’d been just an hour before, fresh from the shower, her skin smooth as satin, the sharp planes of her face unmasked. The armor had been gone but her strength had remained. Tears filled her eyes and she impatiently brushed them away. Max was a warrior. She would be all right, but she wasn’t going to fight this fight alone.

Rachel clasped Grif’s hand where it lay on the bed and squeezed his fingers. “Hi, Grif. You probably don’t remember me. I’m Rachel.”

Grif’s hand twitched and he opened his eyes. “Laurie?”

“No, Grif, it’s Rachel Winslow. You’re in the hospital. You’re hurt, but you’re doing better now.”

Slowly he turned his head, blinked, and frowned. “You’re not my wife.”

“No, I’m not. I’m Rachel. We spent some time together out in the jungle.”

“I remember.” He frowned. “Were you sitting on me?”

She laughed softly, the memory of Max operating in the midst of all that insanity filling her with a rush of triumph. They’d survived. All of them, together. “I was.”

“Thought so. Where’s Max?”

“She’s here. She’s okay.”

He sighed. “Good.”

“Something’s going on, Grif,” Rachel said. “They’re asking a lot of questions about what happened out there. Has anyone been here?”

“No. At least, not that I remember.” He blinked several times and when he focused on her again, his gaze was sharper. “Where’s Max?”

“I don’t know. Two men took Max away. I’m a little worried.”

“Two men—did they have patches, badges? Like Masters at Arms? Military police?”

Rachel tried to picture the blue uniforms, the name tags and patches. “I think maybe, yes.”

“That’s not normal.” He raised his head, surveyed his body. Tubes ran out from beneath the sheets in several places and two IV bags hung from a metal pole anchored to the opposite side. “I’m not going anywhere for a while. Fuck.”

“You need to concentrate on getting better. Max would say the same thing.”

“Yeah, but she’s a hard-ass and never thinks she needs any help.”

Rachel smiled. So Grif saw beneath the camouflage too. “Tell me what to do. How would I find out what’s going on?”

“I don’t know if you can. If there’s some kind of investigation, they’re gonna keep it quiet. If you poke around, they’ll just stonewall.”