SEALs of Summer 2: A Military Romance Superbundle

by S. M. Butler

  Claire did the best she could before throwing herself into the brush behind a large bush. There she lay, breathing as quietly as she could.

  Men carrying guns tromped past the burned-out shell of the structure, barely glancing in the direction of the man half-hidden beneath rocks, brush and sticks.

  As soon as the men went by, Claire returned to the man in black, aware more rebels would be headed their way. She had to do a better job of hiding the soldier or risk him being discovered.

  Irish floated in and out of consciousness. Each time he tried to sit up, pain shot through his head, his vision clouded and he slipped back into an abyss of nothingness. Several times a pale feminine face hovered over his, surrounded by blue-tinged, light-colored hair. Cool fingers pressed to the base of his throat. “Did I die?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

  “Shh.” She pressed a slim finger to his lips.

  He puckered, kissing the pretty lady’s finger. “Are you an angel?” Was it against the rules to kiss an angel? He didn’t care.

  “You have to be silent,” his angel said. “Lie very still.” She pushed rocks and brush over his body.

  Irish blinked in and out, disturbed that his angel seemed intent on burying him. A stab of pain ripped through his head again, and he winced. “Dead sure hurts a lot.”

  “You’re not dead,” she assured him.

  Though the SEAL in the back of his mind echoed death was the easy way out, none of his muscles responded to do anything about it. He lay as still as a dead man, slipping back into the blackness.

  On another trip up to consciousness, moonlight barely came to him through the leaves and branches piled on his face. He lay on the hard ground, rocks and bramble digging into his back, his body covered in dirt, branches and grass. The earthy smell of dirt and dried leaves filled his nostrils. Again, he attempted to sit up, but the weight of his own body and the rubble covering him was more than he could lift.

  In the back of his mind, he knew there was something he should be doing. A task both dangerous and urgent. If only he could stand, grab his weapon and move. Again, he slipped away, waking only when he felt hands on his chest and legs.

  He tried to raise his arm to block the attack, but he couldn’t make it move. It was as though a heavy weight had settled over his entire body. He was helpless to move and not conscious enough to protest.

  “Lie still,” the angel’s voice whispered into his ear, her breath warm against his skin.

  He blinked open his eyes and stared up into dark pools of indigo. There she was again, the woman who’d visited him before. He wanted to know her name. He opened his mouth to ask, but the pain knifed through his head, and he moaned.

  “Shh. You must be quiet, or we’ll be caught,” his angel whispered.

  “Kiss me.” His head and body ached, and his vision grew more blurred. “Please.”

  “If you promise to be quiet.”

  He blinked once. “SEAL’s honor.”

  She bent and pressed her lips to his.

  He smiled, the pain receding for a moment, warmth stealing over him at her touch. She truly was an angel of mercy.

  The sounds of footsteps and equipment rattling nearby disturbed the night.

  “Lie still,” his angel repeated. She covered his face with a branch and disappeared.

  If he died now, at least he’d go having been kissed by an angel.

  Chapter Two

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  Claire suffered through several groups of rebels passing near her location. Between each group, she scurried over to her soldier and rearranged the brush he’d disturbed.

  He was restless and in pain, but she could do nothing about it until she moved him out of danger.

  Thankfully, the rebels on foot and in trucks were more intent on reaching the downed helicopter. Apparently, they hadn’t been close enough to notice the man who’d fallen out before it crash-landed. They concentrated their search efforts on finding the other souls on board the doomed aircraft.

  As another group of al-Shabaab fighters passed through, Claire flattened herself to the ground and lay as still as possible. They trickled through, some moving faster than the others. All carrying guns.

  A shout rose up from the men who reached the helicopter first and the others ran to catch up. Gunfire erupted, along with shouting. But there were not screams of pain and the gunfire seemed to be an unloading of weapons into the darkness, the rapid firing indicating the men were strafing the area. Claire hoped that meant the crew and passengers of the helicopter survived the landing and disappeared.

  Time passed, and some of the men returned to the village, past the location where Claire and the downed military man lay.

  Soon, all was still.

  Claire assumed the rebels had given up finding the other occupants of the helicopter. They hadn’t dragged any past her location. More than likely, they had assigned men to guard the crash site in case the passengers returned to destroy the craft.

  After approximately thirty minutes had elapsed and no one passed her position, Claire took a deep breath and left her hiding place. This might be her only chance to move the man, if he could stay conscious enough to get to his feet and walk, assuming he wasn’t paralyzed from landing on his back.

  Hunkered low, she edged toward the crumbled wall of the structure and searched left and right. The moon was making its descent into the western sky, casting long moon shadows over the ground. Nothing moved.

  Claire turned and quickly removed the branches, rocks and rubble from the soldier’s body. When she’d cleared him, she checked his pulse again. She held her breath until she could feel the strong, steady beat. Pressing a finger to his lips, she shook his shoulder and bent close to his ear. “Hey. Wake up.”

  He didn’t move.

  Her heartbeat kicked into high gear. The longer it took to revive him, the more chance of being found. Though doing so went against her grain, she braced herself to get tough. With the palm of her hand, she lightly slapped his cheek.

  A hand shot up and snagged her wrist in a punishing grip.

  “I wouldn’t do that again, lass,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. Her soldier’s eyes were open and fierce.

  A burst of fear shot through Claire. In the strength of his grasp, Claire figured he could easily snap her wrist. She didn’t know this man, who he was, what he was capable of or his intentions toward her. If he became fully functional, she would be at his mercy.

  Swallowing the lump of panic in her throat, she gave him a stern look. “Good. You’re awake. If you want to stay alive, you have to move. And above all, keep quiet.”

  “Sure we can’t stay put? I’ve a helluva headache.”

  The hint of what sounded like an Irish or Scottish brogue made Claire’s insides curl in a delicious way. She’d noticed it the first time he’d spoken. Now it was more prevalent. That plus the residual tingling of her lips where she’d kissed his added up to make her wonder if she was ill or simply attracted to the man. None of it would matter if she didn’t get him out of this spot in a hurry.

  What worried her most was that the fall from the helicopter could have resulted in a spinal injury. Moving him might paralyze him for life. On the other hand, leaving him where he was would be a death sentence. In broad daylight, the rebels would find him all too soon. Paralysis would be the least of his worries.

  Claire prayed his spine was uninjured as she took his hand and pulled him to a sitting position.

  He swayed and blinked. “Where am I?” he said, his voice low enough she could hear, but hopefully the sound wouldn’t carry far.

  “Outside the al-Shabaab-held village of Samada.”

  He unstrapped his helmet and took it off. “What happened?”

  “You fell out of a helicopter.” She looped his arm over her shoulder. “Right before the helicopter crashed.”

  Muscles tensed, he lurched forward, attempting to rise, nearly pushing her over in the process. “Have to get to my team.”

&
nbsp; “The rebels are looking for them, but haven’t come through here with anyone yet. I assume the occupants made it out and are gone. We have to get out of here before they find you.” Claire braced her feet and held on as he straightened and found his balance.

  Voices sounded in the distance, growing louder, making Claire’s pulse leap. “Someone’s coming.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Where’s my rifle?”

  “We don’t have time to find it.” She wrapped an arm around his waist and started forward.

  Her patient didn’t move. “Get my helmet,” he said. “Can’t risk them finding it.”

  Barely balancing the man with one hand, she scooped the helmet off the ground and headed for the goat trail leading into the brush.

  The man leaned heavily on her, staggering like a drunk.

  Claire prayed he would stay upright until she could get him far enough away from the rebels and the downed helicopter.

  He swayed and almost toppled before they’d gone fifteen yards.

  The voices behind them were nearly to the rubble where Claire and her soldier had been.

  “Get down.” Claire eased him to the ground.

  His legs buckled and he dropped to the earth, making no more than a whisper of noise.

  Claire rolled her charge behind the dense foliage and then peered back the way they’d come.

  Two rebels with their rifles slung over their shoulders stopped beside the crumbled wall. Though Claire understood a little of the native Somali language, they were talking too fast. They mentioned something about their leader Umar being angry. But that was all she got out of their conversation.

  One shook a cigarette out of a pack and handed it to the other. A match was struck, making a small flame in the night sky. The tip of a cigarette glowed to life, and the match was tossed onto the pile of leaves and rubble where the soldier had been lying moments before. Immediately, the match flame caught on one of the dried leaves creating a small fire.

  The rebel nearest to the match stepped on the flame, putting it out. Then he leaned down, lifted something out of the dirt and held it up to the moonlight.

  Damn. A knife. It had probably fallen out of one of the soldier’s pockets.

  The discovery made the two rebels excited, and they talked even faster, bringing their guns off their shoulders and into the ready position. One switched on a flashlight, and both men made a three-hundred-sixty degree turn, shining the beam into the brush.

  Claire flattened herself to the ground, closing her eyes to a mere squint.

  The taller of the two rebels strode toward the goat trail, his gun pointed, his finger on the trigger.

  Her breath caught in her throat, Claire remained hidden, not moving so much as an eyelash as the rebel started toward her.

  She could see his legs through a gap in the bushes and trees. Five more feet and he’d be able to see them.

  The soldier lying on the ground beside her tensed.

  She eased a hand over his shoulder.

  A shout from farther away made the rebel turn and retreat down the trail and back to the ruins where his buddy waited.

  Not in the clear yet, Claire stayed down until the two were joined by three others and the five of them headed toward the crash site.

  For a long moment, she lay still, breathing in and out slowly, calming her racing heart. When she thought the coast was well and truly clear, she leaped to her feet and leaned down to the soldier. “Come on, mister.”

  “Irish.”

  “Irish what?” she asked.

  “My name.”

  “Well, come on, Irish.” Again, she looped his arm over her shoulder.

  He let her pull him to his feet and lead him away from their hiding place.

  The going was slow, and by the time they neared the refugee camp, Claire’s back ached. Irish leaned on her so heavily, she thought she might lose him before they arrived.

  As tired as she was, she couldn’t just dump him in the camp and ask for help. She had to get him to her tent located on the edge of the makeshift village and hide him. Fortunately, she’d insisted on her tent being set up at a little distance from the others, claiming the location would help her stay healthy to better treat the sick and injured.

  Circling as wide a path as she could, she approached her tent from the rear, flung open the flap and half-dragged, half-walked Irish inside where she eased him to the floor. Claire bent over him. “Are you still with me?” she whispered.

  No response.

  Again, she pressed fingers to his neck, her own heart standing still until she felt the steady beat of his pulse. Then she collapsed on the floor beside him and rested her strained back and arms. She wasn’t done. Sunrise would come soon, and she had to hide Irish in the small confines of her tent.

  Once the burning in her arms and back subsided, she moved her cot, folding desk, medical supplies and equipment from one side of the tent and made a makeshift pallet of a sleeping bag and several blankets. Then she strung her mosquito netting from the ceiling, providing a little bit of a visual barrier for anyone peeking in through the door of the tent. When she had the pallet the way she needed it, she pushed, shoved and rolled Irish onto it.

  He muttered and moaned but helped a little. Finally on the padded surface, he passed out again.

  Claire found her penlight and shined it into his eyes. His pupils didn’t respond correctly, indicating a possible concussion. Not much she could do for him. If he had swelling on the brain, she wouldn’t be able to help him without the tools she’d need to drill a hole in his skull to allow excess fluid to drain.

  Her fingers flew over the buckles, velcro, zippers and buttons of his flack vest, jacket and trousers as she stripped him enough to check for other injuries. Rolling him onto his side, she found a large bruise on his back and hip. His trousers were cut clean through on his left shin, a four-inch-long gash laid open his skin to germs and infection.

  To keep from removing the trousers all together, she cut a small length at the ankle and ripped the trouser leg upward. Claire went to work on the abrasion, cleaning it thoroughly with her supply of boiled water. When she had dirt and grit out of the wound, she poured on alcohol to kill any germs and covered it with gauze and medical tape. Using the precious penicillin she’d stored in her kit, she gave him a shot to his derriere. It was the best she could do in primitive conditions, a fact she had long ago accepted when working with the Somali people. Food and shelter meant more to them than medical necessities. Infant mortality was high, and the rebels made sure all ages of mortality stayed at an elevated level.

  When she was finished checking him over, she left him on the pallet and went to work rearranging the rest of the tent to hide him. She pushed her cot up next to him, positioned her boxes of medical supplies in stacks beside her cot and her desk in front of the boxes. Anyone looking into the tent would see her cot before they saw the pallet on the floor, and assume she’d built the barricade for more privacy.

  At least that’s what Claire hoped. When Irish was well enough to move, he’d have to be moved in secrecy.

  And then what?

  She hoped to hell he had some ideas. A week ago, when the rebels had taken control of Samada, they’d confiscated the ancient Land Rover Claire had purchased in Djibouti. No one had expected them to barrel into town, waving guns and firing into the air, until they’d arrived.

  Rather than risk being taken by the rebels, Claire had walked away from her only form of transportation. For the past two weeks, she’d hidden on the edge of the quickly established refugee camp. The rebels knew about the refugee camp and sent over armed fighters to scare them once to remind them who was in charge.

  Umar, their leader, had killed the elder of the village, cut off his head, driven a spiked rod through it and planted it in the earth as a reminder to those who turned against him.

  Claire kept that in mind, knowing if she were caught harboring one of Umar’s enemies, she’d be treated the same, even though she was a do
ctor and a member of the World Health Organization. Her backers could do nothing when she was at Umar’s mercy. Vowing to move Irish as soon as possible, she finished rearranging her meager belongings.

  Early in the predawn hours of morning, she crawled onto her cot, pulled the mosquito netting around her and the pallet, and laid a hand on Irish’s muscled, bare chest. It moved evenly up and down. Occasionally, his uninjured leg jerked and his head moved back and forth, as if he were living a nightmare over and over.

  Leaving her hand on his chest, Claire closed her eyes. Though the night had been trying, the morning and daylight would bring a whole new set of challenges. Hoping a visit from the rebels wasn’t one of them, Claire fell asleep.

  In the gray light of morning, Irish opened his eyes to a splitting headache and stared up at a curtain of light mesh hanging over him. If he turned his head just a little, sharp pain ripped through his skull. But the view of the pretty sandy-blond-haired woman, lying in the cot above him, made him forget the pain for a moment.

  Lying on her stomach, she dangled her hand over the edge of the cot onto his chest and the side of her face was half over, as well. Her straight hair lay in disarray around her shoulders and across her cheek.

  Had he imagined those soft, rosy lips kissing his?

  Irish raised a hand to brush the hair from her cheek, the effort costing him in a stab of pain through his temple and across his skull. His back ached and, when he moved, his left leg joined the rest of his body in soreness. He felt like he’d been put through a meat grinder.

  Slowly, the events of the previous day came back to him—the preparation, the explosion, grenades launched into Umar’s hut, running for the chopper and the aircraft taking a hit.

  His pulse sped, and he started to rise.