Taking Fire

by Radclyffe

  Kennedy still held out her hand and Rachel shook it briefly. Cool and confident, just like Abigail Kennedy.

  Rachel looked at the man who stood a pace behind Kennedy. Another perfect specimen. Six feet or a tad taller, with a rangy build and the requisite broad shoulders. Dark hair, long enough on top to be stylish but not too long, neatly trimmed around his ears and the back of his neck. A long thin face, dark brown eyes to go with the hair. Eyes some women might call soulful. Just a little stubble on his nicely formed jaw. Five o’clock shadow at what…ten in the morning? She wondered if that was a studied effect. She held his gaze.

  “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 beneat
h 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.”

  “Okay. A frontal attack is out. I guess I’ll have to find a way in they won’t be able to shut down.”

  “Good plan.” He grinned. “Where’s the other woman? The one who was with me all the time.”

  “Amina. She’s here too. She’s all right.”

  “Tell her I said thank you. She’s very brave.”

  Rachel swallowed hard. “She is. You all are.”

  Grif’s eyes closed. “Don’t leave Max all alone.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” Rachel stood. “Go to sleep, Grif. I’ll tell Max you said to keep her head down.”

  He opened his eyes. “Could you call my wife? I don’t want the only message she gets about this to come through channels.”

  “Of course. I’d be honored. Tell me your number. Laurie, right?”

  “Yeah.” He recited a number.

  “Is there anything special you want me to tell her?”

  “Tell her I’m fine and everything works.”

  Rachel laughed. “I’m sure she’ll be very glad to hear that.”

  She left him, knowing he’d protect Max when they came to question him. Outside, she climbed back into the Humvee and said, “I’d like to go to headquarters now.”

  “Certainly,” Kennedy said. Apparently, Smith didn’t speak.

  Rachel closed her eyes and let the cool air from the AC revitalize her. Penetrating the wall of silence was going to be impossible on her own. She didn’t know anyone at the military base who would talk to her. Her father might be able to help, but involving him might not be a good idea, not when she didn’t know the reasons for the investigation or who was behind it. Besides, she hated calling on him to solve her problems. Fatigue settled over her and she shook it off. She still had work to do.

  “Ms. Winslow,” Kennedy said.

  Rachel jerked upright. God, she’d fallen asleep. She looked outside. The Humvee idled in front of HQ. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  Rachel climbed out and went inside. She found Pettit’s office after a few wrong turns, knocked on the door, and the same chief petty officer opened it.

  “Ma’am? May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Captain Pettit, please.”

  He studied her a second before holding the door open. “If you’d wait a moment, ma’am.” He walked to the inner door, knocked, and disappeared. A minute later he returned and escorted her into Pettit’s office.

  The captain rose from behind his desk. “Ms. Winslow. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Commander de Milles.”

  “The commander is in a meeting right now.”

  “A meeting.” Rachel fought to keep her expression neutral. She thought about her father’s eternal calm even when she knew he was seething and injected some of that icy control into her voice. “A meeting that required two military police to escort her?”

  The captain’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss this with you.”

  “Captain, I would be dead. Lieutenant Griffin would be dead. Amina Roos would be dead, and probably others, if it weren’t for Commander de Milles. Whatever happened out there, accident or planned, was none of her doing.”

  “As I said, I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

  “I thought it customary that a commanding officer supported his troops. Not turned them over to outside agencies to be interrogated.”

  A muscle bunched along his jaw. “Certain evidence has come to light. The commander’s being questioned, as are several other members of the mission, as part of routine follow-up. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Certain evidence. Well, that told her something beyond routine was going on, and Pettit probably had no control over it. Politics trumped just about everything, even military authority. Rachel saw the finality in his eyes and possibly regret. He couldn’t help her. This route was closed to her, but she wasn’t going to abandon Max without firing a shot.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Max could sleep anywhere—on a gurney in a dark corner waiting for the OR to be cleaned and the next patient to be wheeled in on a long night of back-to-back emergencies, on the ground behind a swell of sand while her comrades kept watch for the enemies who lurked in the night—almost anywhere except in her rack, where she was supposed to be safe. Maybe the only time she felt safe was when she was actually facing death, one-on-one. She wasn’t safe with Carmody, but since she’d been left alone in a bare room with nothing but two metal chairs and a steel table, she’d rather sleep than stare at the blank walls and know she was being watched and probably recorded. Besides, closing her eyes was as near as she could get to flipping off whoever was trying to rattle her.

  The instant she closed her eyes, she thought of Rachel and pictured the man and woman who’d shown up outside her CLU looking for Rachel. They weren’t military. They were more likely of Carmody’s brand, maybe even working with him. They might be friend or foe. Rachel could handle herself, but she’d probably never run up against people like these before. People who thought nothing of using any tactic at their disposal to get what they wanted. People who thought their mission was somehow more vital than that of those who put their bodies on the line every day. People who seemed to have forgotten what the enemy looked like. Rachel didn’t belong anywhere near this snake pit of suspicion and accusation.

  Max would have given almost anything to know Rachel was far away from all of this, but she hadn’t asked. Giving Carmody any indication Rachel mattered to her would be like ha
nding him a loaded weapon and pointing it at her own head. He’d already asked the same questions as he had the night before all over again, as if expecting the answers to be different this time. Who were the insurgents who attacked the camp? How did they know the timing of the rescue operation? What was their target? Who was their target? Who had Max told about the operation? Who had someone else told? Who had she met in the jungle? Every time he asked, she answered him the same way she had the first time, and after he’d grown tired of questioning or perhaps thought if he left her alone she’d panic or bargain, he walked out. After a few hours he came back and started again. Keeping track of time was difficult after so many days without sleep in a barren space with nothing to orient her. No windows, no clock, no voices outside the room. They hadn’t taken her to HQ as she’d first expected, but to a nondescript building at the far edge of the base. She hadn’t seen any base personnel at all when she’d climbed out of the Humvee. Maybe no one even knew she was there. She considered who might miss her if she didn’t arrive back in the States anytime soon.

  No one.

  She hadn’t notified the hospital of her pending return, since her position was secure—ERs always had trouble keeping surgeons willing to take in-house call to cover emergencies—and she hadn’t been sure when she’d arrive stateside. Her fellow docs would be glad to see her—another body to take call and lighten everyone’s load. Maybe the OR nurse she’d spent a night with would give her an extra-special welcome-back smile. But if she never returned? No one would inquire. She hadn’t talked to anyone in her family in over a decade. They hadn’t shown any interest in her plans when she’d been young—in fact, her father had made it clear she was on her own when she hit eighteen. She’d researched how best to pay her way through college and medical school and settled on the Navy. The day after her eighteenth birthday she was on a bus south to Cornell on an ROTC scholarship. She’d never looked back and doubted she’d crossed their minds in years. No girlfriend. No friends. Not even a fucking cat.