This day was going to have a very bad ending.
Chapter Fifteen
Twenty minutes into the journey, a jagged fork of lightning sheared open the sky and released a piss-load of rain on them, like the Universe had been holding its bladder for months solely in anticipation of screwing Kyle over. Thanks, U. Love your show.
Max leaned forward against the steering wheel, squinting hard at the windshield. The wipers were swatting ineffectually at the downpour, and—
“Oh!” she cried out as a right-hand bend in the road appeared suddenly out of the blinding rain. She hit the brakes, throwing up a walled sheet of muddy water from the two left tires as she skidded through the turn. She barely made it. “Oh, God,” she gasped. “I’m going to have to slow down, Kyle.”
He nodded curtly, then checked the road through the cab’s rear window. Any minute now…
Max slowed, her grip knuckle-white on the steering wheel. “I’d give my eye teeth for a Denny’s to stop at and wait out this rain.”
Annnnd…here they are. Two trucks packed to the gills with baddies came up on their six o’clock. Kyle tightened his grip on the Kalashnikov. Eighteen bullets. Two trucks’ worth of asshole jihadists. Wonder what kind of odds he’d get in Vegas for that. Ten to one? He scrunched his toes back and forth against the sand in his boots. Twenty?
A tense, silent hour later, their truck gave several warning chugs.
Kyle glanced at Max.
She was studying the gas gauge. “Judging by how far I’m estimating we originally drove to get to the shrine, I think we’ve got approximately ten miles left before we reach the aid station.” She looked at him. “If I remember the map correctly, we’ve been traveling along the Charhoi Road, and the turnoff to Saaneh is just up ahead. If we continue due east on that road, we’ll hit home.”
“All right. Stop short of the turnoff over there—see?—where the trees are thickest.” He wouldn’t go so far as to call the forest thick, but there were enough trees to offer a degree of concealment from pursuit and protection from bullets. Definitely better than open land. “We’ll make the rest of the journey on foot.”
The truck jerked and coughed.
“Are we going to take Abu Majid with us?” Max asked.
“No. He’ll only slow us down.” And ensure the jihadist assholes follow us. Kyle shifted his attention over to the warlord. “I suppose now he’s going to have to decide whether he’s more interested in getting his acolytes out of Guantanamo or in lesson-teaching a couple of reporters.”
Ahab’s expression didn’t reveal anything about what his decision might be. Go fig.
Max pulled off to the side of the road. The truck was still drifting to a stop when Kyle stepped out and leveled the Kalashnikov at the oncoming trucks. He was drenched the moment his boots hit the muddy road.
The bad guys braked to a stop three hundred yards out.
Through the haze of rain in his eyes, Kyle saw that the dark clouds were so low they touched the horizon. Electricity zigzagged across the wall of gray.
He was just tickled fucking pink over this escape. “Go!” he called out to Max.
She jumped from the truck, leaving the duffel with the broken camera behind, but shouldering her small backpack. She took off into the trees.
Kyle backed up, keeping the rifle aimed at the baddies, until he reached the tree line. He turned and ran in, spotting Max about half a dozen yards ahead, weaving between tree trunks. Branches overhead dropped heavy, splotchy droplets onto him.
Moments later, feet clomped behind him in pursuit, a few wild bullets were shot off, then nothing. The asshole jihadists were probably just messing with them, trying to send a signal, but still. Kyle wouldn’t find his happy place until Max was secured at the aid station.
So they ran…
He gave Max mondo points for being a tough little cookie. She kept up a steady jog for a full hour through the ceaseless rainfall before asking to rest, and even then, it was only after they’d started up an exhausting hill of rock.
“Sorry,” she panted. “I’m a swimmer, not a runner.” She slung off her backpack, then collapsed onto her butt in the wet sand. The trees had completely petered out awhile back, so there wasn’t anything to lean back against or to offer even a modicum of shelter against the relentless, pounding rain.
“You’re doing great,” he said. “We’ve been running for a full hour straight, Max.”
“Would you hold it against me if I admitted it feels like way longer?” Propping her forearms on her knees, she hung forward between her legs, the points of her shoulder blades poking up, her head loose on her neck. Rain pelted down on her scarf, gluing it more securely to the back of her skull. Her blue and white-striped blouse was likewise stuck to her body, flesh tones showing through where the stripes were white, along with a partial outline of her bra.
He scanned the area, his nerves still coiled up, and rubbed the stinging point of injury on the underside of his chin. His jaw must give off a beacon for bad guys to stab. Rain funneled off his head and rolled down his shoulders. Water had soaked through his boots and bonded with the sand in them, creating a clay-like substance glomming onto his toes. Good thing he hadn’t been a soldier back in the days of Vietnam. He wasn’t sure he could’ve dealt with the endless monsoons those guys faced. Because this blew. Only good thing he could say about this tropical storm was that it’d cleansed Pakistan of its normal odor, the stench of arid ground and broken, useless lives, and left behind the scents of nature, spices of the earth, and crisp air.
At his feet, Max began to shiver.
“Do you think you can continue on now?” he asked her.
Lightning forked across the sky, followed immediately by a boom of thunder loud enough to wake Australia.
Max placed her palms on her head.
“We’re almost there, Max. The aid station is just over this ridge.” He recognized it from the day he’d flown in.
Max straightened and reached into her backpack. “I need food first.” She pulled out two granola bars and held one up to him.
He took it. Lunch had been hours ago.
She found her thermos and took a couple of hard glugs.
“Eat quick,” he said. “Dusk is falling.” And he’d rather throw his dad a Father of the Year party than be gallivanting around northern Pakistan after dark. He consumed his own bar in three bites; it was soggy with rain after the first.
They walked the rest of the way, making it through the aid station gate just as the storm-tossed sky turned from purple to charcoal. Kyle handed off the Kalashnikov to the astonished Pakistani sentry, who peered out from the hood of his dripping slicker at the blood on Kyle’s shirt collar with eyes the size of fried eggs.
Kyle led Max down Main Street, which was now a soggy bog suctioning their boots to the ground, water rushing along the small trenches on either side as if being pushed along by turbines. He came to his tent, hopped the gutter, helped Max over, then brought her inside. He flipped on his light.
“Jeez, you have a b-bed?” She hugged herself as she shivered. “No fair. I only have a freaking cot.”
“I think I got the VIP quarters.” He helped her out of her mini backpack, then left that and his Beretta on a shelf by the door. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
He stepped close to her and smoothed her headscarf off.
She turned her face up to him and met his eyes.
A spot warmed in his chest. He’d bet this was what she looked like after a swim. He could see her now, climbing out of a pool with her lithe body shedding water, her hair slicked back like it was now, highlighting the perfect shape of her small head. Seeing her face from this angle, her chin really wasn’t so pointy, more like expressive, same as the arc of her eyebrows and the delicate slant of her cheekbones. A lump wedged into his throat. She was…actually very pretty.
Another shudder ran through Max. “I don’t know why I’m shaking s-so much,” she chattered. “It’s humid out.”
She stepped back and tried to unbutton her blouse with quaking fingers.
“It’s also the aftereffects of a lot of adrenaline.” He tossed her headscarf into a corner of his tent.
She shot a glance at him. “You’re not shaking.”
He smiled. “I’m a shake on the inside kind of guy.” He took over the job of unbuttoning her blouse. “You look soaked as a rabbit I once pulled out of a drainpipe when I was a kid.” Pushing the shirt off her shoulders, he sent it the way of her headscarf, then crouched down and untied her boots. She stepped out of them, then undid her jeans and peeled them down her legs to the floor.
He stood, nothing but his heartbeat between them, and stared at her for an arrested moment, eye to eye, his focus never straying below her neck. His periphery picked up the jut of her nipples against her bra, and, oddly, the sight just made him worry about her still being cold. He moved to the clothesline strung across the room over the other bed—Jobs’, but only used once—and yanked a towel off it. He handed it to her, and, as she dried off, he stripped down to his skivvies.
She offered the towel back to him, her gaze traveling over his bare chest. “Your shirt’s off, Kyle,” she said quietly.
“So it is.” He spoke softly, too. A water droplet slithered off the end of his hair and trickled down his pecs. He’d never felt quite so naked as he did just then, even with his underwear on. You never take off your shirt. Because it covers your heart. He hauled in a deep breath and on the exhale, realized, it’s not so bad. Not with her, at least.
“I didn’t like the hood,” she whispered.
He speared his fingers through his wet hair and pressed his lips together. Just hang him up by the balls for not saving her from that.
“Or having my arm nearly blown off.”
Not his funnest memory, either. He swallowed against a snarled ball of emotion rising into his throat. “The day as a whole sucked.”
Thunder clapped, reverberating through the canvas walls of the tent.
She jumped. “That’s getting old, too.”
“Why don’t you hop under the covers? Warm up.”
“In a real bed?” She gusted a breath. “Don’t have to ask me twice.” She scooted into his bed and rolled onto her side, presenting her back to him. In invitation for spooning?
He paused for many long, warm seconds to study the fine contours of each vertebra in her spine, the length of it divided in unequal halves by her bra strap. She was lying in a position of such open trust. The sight humbled him.
He dropped his underwear to his ankles. Naked-on-naked would be the best, quickest way to warm her up: not a tactic, just fact. He patted his body dry, wiping the glop off his feet—which took extra effort, fucking sand—then climbed in next to her.
Her breathing changed rhythm.
From his nakedness? Or nearness? Or both? Unhooking her wet bra, he slipped it off. He tucked his fingers into the back waistband of her underwear, paused—no protests? Okay—then gently tugged off her panties. He chucked both bra and undies into an unknown part of his tent. Hauling the blankets over them in a warm cocoon, he pulled her against the curve of his body, wrapping his arms around her. Her flesh was chilly as a Budweiser bottle rooted from the bottom of an ice chest, but her little body was actually a solid weight in his embrace. Another pleasant surprise.
He felt a low hum of tension in her…or maybe anticipation. His dick was erect against her butt. His organ had taken notice of the soft curve of her bare rump, and what could he do? She was no doubt waiting to see if he’d try something. And if he did, would she take him up on it? He sensed she just might. But sex was the farthest thing from his mind, and not only because she’d put her trust in him, but because this was what he wanted, comfort, contentment, and—ah, hell, the bright rings of Max’s eyes would go extra-shiny over this one—connection.
How he’d arrived at this place, he wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe because of his shared suck-o experiences with Max today. I didn’t like the hood. Or maybe because this woman had succeeded in creating intimacy between them, shattering his notion that the female and male species could never truly connect. When I was nine years old, I asked my parents for a baby brother for Christmas. How lonely were you growing up, Max? As lonely as I was? No one ever follows through. I read you loud and clear on that one, honey.
Holding her closer, Kyle buried his nose in her hair, enjoying her rain-freshened scent, reveling in the pure, bright joy of just taking care of her. Minutes slid easily by. Their bodies warmed to a relaxing temperature. His cock settled down, and so did Max’s breathing, and her tension, along with the fury of the heavens.
She slept in his arms.
Rain pattered faintly.
He couldn’t ever remember feeling as complete as he did right now, like he had earned the right to stand up and say I’ll be here for you, Max, and it would be real. Fuck anyone who doubted it. Screw Sienna, first and foremost, for never having given him a pittance of credit for anything he’d ever done. Max already believed in him. It’s either all of you or none of you, Kyle. Like there was no doubt in her mind there was an all of him to have. He wasn’t just some scruffy unfortunate to save, but a man worth connecting with.
Thank you for saving my life…the day in the ambulance…with ISI. Thank you.
His eyes drifted closed. He was that man.
See?
The Universe spoke the single word with such tranquil, golden wisdom, Kyle couldn’t figure why he’d never listened before. A distinct swelling sensation inflated his heart.
Thank you back, Max.
Chapter Sixteen
Kyle rolled over on the mattress and slowly lifted his eyelids. Rumpled sheets, empty bed… Quieting his breathing, he honed in on sounds. Silence. No one was in his tent.
A chill gripped his chest, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was back to being a googolplexian-level idiot, not that he’d ever graduated from that illustrious status. Opening his eyes again, he stared at the blank canvas wall of his tent. He should stay in bed all day, contemplate how incompetent he was at reading people and situations. At relationships. Maybe breakfast first, though. Considering last night’s dinner had consisted of a single granola bar, his stomach was complaining. Then he’d crawl back in bed, do a lot of feeling sorry for himself. Yeah, perfect plan.
Groaning, Kyle swung up to a sitting position on the edge of his bed and scrubbed a hand over his face, rasping his beard. Soon he’d be able to shave the damned thing off. Soon this mission would be over—today, possibly—so soon Max Dougin would be out of his life.
His cold chest tightened on a wave of—
No. Nononono.
No! He wasn’t going to hose himself up over a woman again. It was a good thing for Max to go. He didn’t need—
And then he saw it.
A note.
Folded into fourths.
Tumbled off to the side of Max’s pillow.
He stared at it for an eternal moment. Was it real? He reached over, plucked it off the bed, and unfolded it.
Max had written in neat script:
You don’t snore.
Your breath smells really good, even first thing in the morning.
And you’re to-die-for cozy to sleep against.
The rain stopped and I had to go pee, but any time you want a bed buddy, I’m in.
Max
He circled his jaw against a swift surge of emotion.
Max hadn’t bailed.
She’d left him a note.
A really, really nice note. He even chuckled over “pee,” although the noise he made sounded more like a watery hiccup. He read it three times, his heart leaping over larger and larger hurdles on each read. A huge, wide-open space opened inside his chest, unlocked to…possibilities.
Grinning like a moron, he leaned over to the small table by his bed and grabbed his wallet. He refolded the note, smaller than before, and tucked it inside. He’d keep it forever. He and Max would probably go the
ir separate ways, they might marry other people, but he’d secretly keep this note. Because something had happened to him with it just now. He didn’t know what. But something.
A sudden frown pulled at his brows. They would probably go their separate ways… Well, hell. Now the idea of Max being out of his life soon felt like crap.
Standing, Kyle dug into his duffel bag and dressed in whatever his hand grabbed first. All the clothes he’d brought to Pakistan were the same, anyway. He didn’t know what to do about his boots, though. They were—
A knock sounded at his door. “It’s me,” Max said.
At the sound of her voice, his heart tumbled over itself. Whoa. Had that ever happened before? He conducted a quick scan of his memory. No way. Hadn’t. “Come in.”
She stepped inside, holding two coffee mugs.
Their gazes caught and held.
Max’s eyes filled with an I-really-like-you look that had Kyle nearly squirming out of his freshly donned clothes. It was probably the best thing he’d ever seen. Scratch probably. It flat-out was. “Hey. How are…?” Then he noticed she was dressed in dark green shorts, a white T-shirt, and flip-flops. Those were the clothes she wore when they wouldn’t be leaving camp. “Shit. JEM’s not coming today.”
“No,” she confirmed, moving forward to hand him one of the coffee mugs. “My contact called this morning and asked to come tomorrow instead, claiming the hostages are too far away to make it here by this afternoon.”
“Too far?” he repeated skeptically. “The JEM compound in northern Punjab was only an hour away.”
“And India’s southern Kashmir and Doda region is even closer. This does seem a bit outside of the box.”
He took a large gulp of coffee. Ouch, it was hot. “So what do you think is really going on?” He knew what he thought, and it wasn’t good.
“JEM has an inkling that the ultimate hostage swap isn’t going to be aboveboard,” she replied, “so they’re amassing more men.”
He nodded. Same.
She blew on the surface of her coffee, then took a sip. “Is it possible to put more military on this? It’d be nice to have our own spies on JEM, get some intel on exactly what they’re up to.”
Wings of Gold Series Page 38
