Taking Fire

by Radclyffe

  “First I’m going to clean it out.” Max squatted and soaked a gauze pad in saline. “It’ll sting some.”

  “I can do it,” Rachel said.

  “It’s easier if I do.” Max dabbed the solution on the two-inch laceration below Rachel’s right eye. “Besides, you might ease up if it starts to hurt.”

  Rachel half smiled. “And you won’t mind hurting me?”

  Max laughed softly. “Nope. I intend to be completely heartless.”

  Rachel shook her head slightly. “Somehow, I don’t quite believe it.”

  “Maybe you should.” Max stopped what she was doing. Rachel didn’t know her, couldn’t know her, and now was as good a time as any to interject a little perspective into their situation. “Don’t mistake duty for anything else. I’m only doing my job.”

  “Yes. I got that part loud and clear.” Rachel didn’t argue the point. Max had a right to her boundaries. And if she chose to keep people at a distance, that was no one’s business. Despite Max’s insistence on appearing detached and aloof, however, her hands were gentle as she cupped Rachel’s jaw in the palm of her hand and continued to clean the laceration. Rachel had nowhere to look except into Max’s face as she worked, and she found herself visually tracing the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. She suspected she’d developed the same lines after weeks of squinting into the unrelenting sun. Those little imperfections only added to the attractiveness of the picture. Max had a beautiful face. Strong and elegant with a square jaw and high straight nose. Looking into her eyes was like looking into the sea—deep and fathomless one minute, stormy and gray the next. Her black hair was thick and shaggy, and the untamed look made her appear carelessly handsome. Even the smudges of grease under her eyes and dust shadowing her jaw accentuated the rugged appeal.

  “Where are you from?” Rachel asked, needing to distract herself from thinking about Max’s face, or her hands, or the way Max had taken her into her arms as if she had every right to hold her.

  “Djibouti.”

  “I meant—before.”

  For a second, Max looked confused, as if the question made no sense. Then a bit of color touched her pale cheeks. “Oh. New York City, I guess.”

  “Not sure?”

  “Well, I’m not really from there, but that’s where I live now. Where I work.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Buffalo,” Max said shortly. The way she said it, her past didn’t appear to be something she was interested in discussing.

  “Big family? Only child?”

  “Youngest of seven.” A shadow passed through Max’s eyes. “My father kept trying for a son. He never got one.”

  Something there, Rachel thought, and moved away from the pain she hadn’t meant to stir up. “Married? Engaged?”

  Max dropped the used gauze onto the small pile of litter by her side and opened the pack of Steri-Strips. “No and no.”

  “Never and never?”

  “Not even close.” Max tilted Rachel’s face to the side. “Hold still.”

  Rachel waited while Max taped up her cheek. It seemed absurd, to be giving this tiny injury so much attention after all the horrible wounds she’d seen that morning. All the same, she was a little disappointed when Max finished. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Max gathered up the debris. “Amina’s finding us something to eat. Make sure you get something.”

  “You should too.”

  “Right. I will.”

  The walls Max so carefully maintained came down between them with a resounding thud, and Rachel wondered if her questions had been the cause. She’d barely broached the personal, but clearly Max’s armor shielded more than just her body. She could respect that—she had plenty of her own walls, but the more she knew of Max de Milles, the more she wanted to.

  Chapter Nine

  Rachel sat next to Amina on the cot and opened the meal packet. She’d had MREs before—nutritionally balanced combinations of protein, carbohydrates, and fats in the form of familiar-looking foods that always tasted bland. The meal-ready-to-eat was designed to be eaten as-is or warmed with the self-contained cooking unit, but she doubted even heating the bits of chicken, beans, and rice would make it more palatable today. She had no appetite and was only eating because she knew she should. Beside her, Amina methodically did the same. Rachel squeezed her forearm. “How are you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Amina said softly. “Part of me wants to pretend it’s all a dream, a very, very bad dream, but that seems disrespectful somehow.”

  “What do you mean?” Rachel broke open the Fig Newton cookie wrapper and nibbled on the corner. Sugar was a good energy source at least. “Disrespectful?”

  “Of our friends who died here, and those who have been injured trying to help us.” Amina’s gaze drifted to Grif and Max, who leaned over him, checking him again, murmuring softly to him. He didn’t appear to hear or to answer. “The least we can do is remember.”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, although she wasn’t worried about remembering. She was never going to forget, even though part of her desperately wanted to. “I’d like to think none of this is happening either but…I can’t.” She couldn’t erase the images burned into her mind—Dacar, dead on the ground with part of his neck missing. Grif rushing to help her and then falling, a brilliant arc of warm red blood spurting from his leg. Grif, ignoring his own plight and telling her to leave him, to save herself. Max, facing her first with a gun, then with unexpected and immeasurable kindness in her eyes. The noise, the heat, the stench of cordite and blood. All of it was etched into her consciousness for all time. She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Will the Americans be back?” Amina asked.

  “Max said they will come.” Rachel realized as she answered how completely she’d accepted Max’s certainty. She never relied on anyone without question, not even her father, but she was trusting her very survival to Max.

  “When?”

  Rachel rolled down the foil and set the food aside. “Max says tonight after sundown. If they can.”

  “And what about al-Qaeda? Are they coming back too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What will we do if the enemy return?”

  “We’ll fight.” Rachel hadn’t really thought of the rebels as her enemy until now. She’d known of them well before she’d reached Somalia—of the threat they posed to the mission, of the barbaric acts they committed, of the terror they perpetrated on the Somali people whose land they overran, whose animals and food and crops they confiscated. She’d understood intellectually the rebels were a potential danger to her and the others, but enemy was not a word she would have used for anyone in her life. She counted only a few people in her life as friends—those with whom she shared her hopes and dreams and, rarely, her fears. Most, even the women she’d been intimate with, were more acquaintances whom she allowed only brief glimpses of her innermost self. She knew individuals she’d rather avoid, but no one she would have called an enemy until now. Here in this foreign land the compass of her life had been recalibrated, and everything took on a different meaning. She squeezed Amina’s hand again. “They may not come back. Try not to worry.”

  “Impossible,” Amina said, “but I am glad we are not alone here.”

  Rachel glanced at Max. She had no choice but to rely on Max’s knowledge and skill, but she wasn’t going to let Max carry all the burden of keeping them safe alone. She might not be a soldier, but she’d had plenty of practice caring for people in need. Grif needed care. She had no idea what Max needed, but she could still offer. She slid over next to Max. “Is there something that I can do for him? Or…you?”

  Max set her stethoscope into her pack. “No. He’s about the same. He just needs to be watched. Amina’s doing a good job with that.”

  “Then you should eat something.”

  “I will, as soon as—”

  “It’s quiet right now. It might not be later,” Rachel said. Max obviously considere
d herself indestructible, and ordinarily Rachel wouldn’t have pushed her. Everyone was entitled to a little self-delusion if it harmed no one else, but they needed Max healthy if they were going to get out of this mess alive. “Follow your own orders.”

  Max sighed. “All right. You ought to try to get some sleep. We’ll need to take turns tonight standing watch.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to collect all the weapons I can find, hit the hospital tent to stock up on medical supplies, and then I’m going to make us a safe place to spend the night.”

  “Then I’m going with you. Someone to watch your back, remember?”

  “It’s apparent that you never forget anything and I’m likely to find my words coming back at me.” Max smiled. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

  “You’re right, but then, I doubt you ever say anything you don’t mean, so there’s no need to worry about it.” Rachel smiled and handed her a MRE. “Eat first. Turnabout and all.”

  “Fair enough.” Max pulled over a wooden crate, sat down, and shook out the plastic utensil that came in the package. She scooped up a forkful of beef and vegetables and pointed to the plastic bottles Amina had brought inside. “Drink another bottle of water to get hydrated if you’re coming with me.”

  “I’m used to the heat,” Rachel said, not wanting to be yet another thing Max had to worry about, but she downed another bottle of water all the same.

  “Good.” Max gave her a long look as she upended the foil pack and palmed the cookie that fell out. After disposing of the dessert in one bite, she emptied the big pack Grif had carried on his back and handed it to Amina. “Can you fill this with MREs and water?”

  “Yes.” Amina took the bag and pressed it to her chest. “Can you call your base? Is it safe to do that?”

  “It’s safe to send a short burst,” Max said, “and I tried several times when I was…out in the jungle, but I’m getting nothing but static. Probably interference from the heavy tree cover and the distance we are from base. Radio silence doesn’t mean they aren’t planning to come for us. They’ll get sat images and recon shots from drone flyovers. They’ll use those to see what our friends out there are up to and figure out a way back.”

  “That’s good then, right?” Rachel said. “If our people can see the rebels, they’ll know if we’re in for more trouble. They’ll come sooner then, right?”

  “If there are signs of heavy encampment nearby, they may need longer to coordinate the necessary personnel and air support, but they’ll come.” Max shifted some of the ammunition from Grif’s pack to hers, shouldered her pack, and grabbed her rifle. “Until then, we get ready.”

  Rachel slipped her rifle over her shoulder with the naturalness she had once used to picked up a briefcase. How quickly she had come to accept the weapon and what it meant about her life. She caught up to Max, who was collecting the rifles and ammunition she had taken off the guards’ bodies earlier. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  “You know what I know.” Max motioned to the tent, and after they piled the weapons inside, they started for the medical tent.

  “I’m not talking about what you know.” Rachel strode beside Max, trying not to look at the forlorn belongings of her friends and teammates abandoned in the tattered tents along the way. Now she understood the shock and confusion she’d seen over and over again in the faces of the men, women, and children who had straggled into the camp, struggling to survive in a world turned upside down in an instant. “I’m talking about what you think. We’re not children, and we’re not afraid of the dark.” She still was, so it seemed, but she wasn’t going to let Max know that. She’d face those demons on her own when the time came.

  The edge of Max’s jaw tightened. “I know you’re not children.”

  Rachel said softly, “Remember the part where you explain what’s happening and I say Yes, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You don’t look like a ma’am. And I can tell when you’re trying to change the subject.”

  “If surveillance shows an al-Qaeda camp nearby, the birds will be at risk coming back in. If I were planning the op, I’d strike the rebel camp at the same time as I sent a team to rescue us to keep them busy. That kind of op takes coordination.” She grimaced. “And it takes clearance from Washington. As soon as you throw politicians into the mix, everything slows down.”

  “So we might be here a while.” Rachel knew her father would be doing everything he could to get her—all of them—out of here, but Max was right. Even with his influence, mounting any kind of offensive would require a lot of debate in Washington and beyond.

  “A few days, possibly.”

  “What about Grif?”

  “He’ll make it,” Max said flatly. “Wait here.” She shouldered her rifle, pushed the flap aside on the medical tent, and ducked inside. “Clear.”

  Rachel followed her in. “The supply racks are in the back.”

  Max pointed to a canvas litter lying against the side of the tent. “We’ll pile them on that.”

  Once they’d loaded the instruments and medicines Max wanted, they hefted the litter and carried it back. Amina sat by Grif on a pile of empty flour sacks, looking tired but calm. When she started to rise, Max shook her head.

  “We’ve got this.”

  Rachel helped Max pile the medical supplies on a table and stowed the litter on the floor. “Next?”

  “You sure you don’t need a break?” Max asked as she started back outside.

  Rachel wanted to curl up on the flimsy cot, close her eyes, and sleep for a year. She wanted to wake up and be in a hotel in Mogadishu, with a toilet that flushed and a shower that wasn’t hanging from a tree and food that came on a plate. She wanted not to be afraid, not to see blood everywhere she looked, not to ache with loss. God help her, she wanted to go home. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Two hours later she was ready to admit defeat. She’d thought she’d gotten used to the heat. The temperature inside the tents, where she usually spent the day, was as high as or higher than outside, but the intensity of the direct sunlight elevated hot to a new level. Her skin felt as if it was on fire. Every breath scorched her throat. The surface of her eyes burned. Her shirt and pants were soaked with sweat, and rivulets of water ran down her face, over her neck, between her breasts. She wasn’t sure she could stand another minute under the unrelenting rays. But Max wouldn’t quit. How could she?

  She concentrated on the rhythmic scrape of Max’s shovel. Max had been at it for hours with only short breaks to drink water from the canteen clipped on her belt, steadily driving her short square spade into the ground, lifting a shovelful of dirt, flinging it over her shoulder in a red-brown arc. The hole was almost eight feet wide and more than half as deep by now. The dirt she’d heaved out of it was piled high around the edges, and the walls sloped inward. She understood Max intended for them to spend the night in that hole. She definitely knew she would not be sleeping.

  “Won’t we be trapped in there if they overrun the camp?” Rachel asked. Max undoubtedly knew what she was doing, but even conversation was better than thinking about the hell she’d been thrust into.

  “If they overrun the camp, we’ll be trapped no matter where we are.” Max’s shoulders and arms flexed as she dug the shovel into the soil again. “At least from in here a few of us can hold off five times our number in all directions. Even inexperienced shooters like the two of you. If we take enough of them out, they might think hard before sacrificing too many people to get to us.”

  “Do we have enough ammunition?”

  Max wiped her forearm across her face and looked up. “We’ll be all right.”

  “You should drink some more water.”

  “I’m out.”

  “Good thing I’m not.” Rachel pulled another bottle from the pocket of her cargo pants, uncapped it, and handed it down to Max. Max had shed her armor and camo jacket and worked in just T-shirt and pants. Sweat plaster
ed the tan T-shirt to her shoulders and chest. She was solidly built, the muscles in her torso sculpted beneath the tight cotton, her biceps and forearms etched with muscle. She wore no rings, only a large watch on her left wrist and dull silver dog tags on a chain around her neck. Her uniform pants, even with her heavy equipment belt laden down with ammunition, her sidearm, and other things Rachel couldn’t identify, didn’t quite obliterate the curve of her toned hips and thighs. Even dirty, sweat-soaked, and disheveled, Max was more attractive than any woman she’d ever met.

  “You need to keep hydrated,” Rachel said, her voice husky.

  Max swallowed the warm water until the plastic bottle was empty, watching Rachel appraise her as she drank. She was used to being surrounded by troops, used to eating and sleeping in close quarters, used to semi-strangers seeing her in various stages of undress, but no one had ever looked at her the way Rachel did now, with appreciation and interest. Rachel’s eyes tracked up her chest to her face and, when their eyes met, Rachel’s cheeks flushed.

  Max grinned, liking Rachel’s consternation. She liked the way Rachel’s mouth thinned a little too, as if she was irritated at being caught with her guard down. There wasn’t much of anything to be happy about out here. Just being alive rated pretty high on the be-thankful list. The spark of playful pleasure Rachel set off in her when she least expected it was completely foreign. Even back in her other life, she hadn’t enjoyed anything quite as much as the swift stirring in her belly ignited by Rachel’s slow-lidded smile. She crushed the plastic bottle in her fist and stuffed it into an outside pocket of her pants. “Thanks for the water.”

  Rachel nodded, the tip of her tongue sweeping over her lips as if searching for words. “Anytime.”

  “Is there rice or flour on those pallets behind the tent?”

  “Rice, I think,” Rachel said. “Why?”

  “Sandbags.”

  “Oh. I guess that means we have to carry them over here.”

  Max shook her head. Rachel was trying to be tough but her face was drawn and pale despite the sunburn coloring the stark arches of her cheekbones. She tossed the shovel up and out. “I’ll take a look around. There must be something around here with wheels on it.”