Tinderbox (Flashpoint Book 1)

by Rachel Grant

  She was as qualified as anyone and better suited than most.

  But as thrilled as she was with having found Linus, she liked breathing more. And as much as she felt like the tool-making, meat-butchering, three-and-a-half-foot-tall hominin who was akin to a hairless, bipedal chimpanzee was hers, if her life was at stake, she could—and probably should—walk away.

  Or, as she should have done when told by Callahan there was a bomb under her car, she could run.

  They reached the road, but there was no sign of a convoy. Blanchard radioed, and a driver responded. He was midsentence when she heard a boom in the distance.

  The crackling of the radio went silent.

  Chapter Three

  Motherfucker! The convoy on Bravo route had hit an IED. Pax met Cal’s gaze. “We need to get Dr. Adler out of the open.” He nodded toward the dry riverbed. “The wadi is our best bet.”

  With a sharp nod, Cal changed directions and led the way down into the dry valley. Pax followed, behind Dr. Adler, his attention on the radio, listening for updates on the situation on Bravo. The second convoy—the team that would investigate the explosion and retrieve the damaged Humvee—was coming the long way around, via Charlie, but HQ opted to reroute them to provide aid to the Bravo team.

  “Injuries to personnel in the convoy are minor.” Cal translated the chatter for Dr. Adler’s benefit.

  “Thank God.” Her voice was shaky. Pax had a feeling the seriousness of the situation had finally eclipsed her anxiety over losing the fossils.

  He understood the significance, but still, his life, her life, and Cal’s life were worth way more than some damned fossilized bones, and anger still simmered over the way she’d fought him as he carried her to safety.

  He had no time for myopic civilians, no matter how angelic their features.

  Djibouti hovered on the edge of a flashpoint. The country was no place for anyone who couldn’t grasp that. It was a massive tinderbox, baking in the sun. One tiny piece of glass catches the light just right, and the region would be engulfed in flames.

  Cal traipsed down the steep slope at a rapid pace. Dr. Adler surprised Pax by keeping up, but then she’d said she’d been in country and working in the field for months and was probably acclimated to both the climate and the terrain. Her earlier exhaustion was likely due to shock and that they were out during the highest heat of the day.

  Cal reached the bottom of the wadi and turned to give Dr. Adler a hand. She froze in front of Pax with a suddenness that forced him to stop short to avoid slamming into her.

  Cal’s brows furrowed. “Dr. Adler?”

  “There’s a Northeast African carpet viper sliding over your boot.” Her voice was low and so dry, it was more breath than sound.

  Very slowly, Cal looked down. Pax shifted so he could see around a boulder protruding from the slope and watched as the highly venomous snake took its sweet time slithering over Cal’s boot. Thankfully, the leather was thick and went well above his ankles. The snake would have to strike high if it wanted to break skin.

  Cal and Dr. Adler stood frozen as the snake slithered past. It disappeared under a large rock several feet away. She drew in a deep breath and swayed back on the release, leaning into Pax’s chest. She stayed with her back pressed to the hard plate of his body armor as she took another deep breath. “That’s the second one I’ve seen since I arrived.”

  “First one for me,” Cal said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  She nodded and gingerly stepped down to the floor of the wadi.

  Some sections of the dry riverbed were wide and open. Here, the wadi was fifty yards across bank to bank, but much of the desolate valley, including parts of the winding two-mile stretch that would take them to the Gulf of Tadjoura and the US Navy port at Camp Citron, was constricted and riddled with massive boulders they’d have to navigate around. US forces heavily patrolled the section closest to the base, but the Djiboutian government frowned upon the appearance of the US military controlling more territory than they’d been granted, so this far from base, the wadi was a no-man’s land.

  Wadis—the beds or valleys of streams that remain dry except during the rainy season—were a cruel taunt in Djibouti, which had no actual rivers and only seasonal streams. They were a promise of water that never delivered. But as far as Pax could tell, everything about Djibouti was cruel.

  Cal took the lead with Pax walking backward, covering their six with his M4 at the ready. They’d find a protected, viperless position to hole up in and await orders. If they didn’t have Dr. Adler, they’d go directly to the base, but the woman was more than a hindrance, she was an unknown.

  A spy with the perfect cover, or an innocent targeted for death by Etefu Desta?

  Once they found a safe position, Cal radioed their commander. The news wasn’t good. The second convoy, the one that had taken the Charlie route, was pinned by sniper fire. They were dealing with a coordinated assault orchestrated by Desta.

  “Desta’s never had the organization or firepower to launch an attack like this before,” Cal said.

  Pax nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing. His gaze traveled up and down Dr. Adler. Desta’s messenger. What the hell did that mean? “What if Desta isn’t the one behind this three-pronged assault?” he said. “Who else is gunning for Camp Citron?”

  Cal snorted. “We can narrow it down to pretty much everyone in East Africa and on the Arabian Peninsula.”

  He grimaced at the truth in Cal’s statement. “I’ll rephrase: who has the means to organize an assault like this? Both the timing and the money?”

  Cal shrugged. “No clue. Maybe China?”

  It was true that China was working awfully hard to gain a toehold in East Africa, but a direct attack on a US military base seemed far-fetched, even for them. Again Pax’s gaze landed on Dr. Adler. Her reaction had been extreme. Too extreme?

  Possible. But his gut said she was just a shortsighted fool.

  Radio chatter increased as the marines on Charlie estimated the sniper’s position. Cal perked up. “If the sniper is west of Charlie, between the wadi and the base, we’re behind the asshole.”

  Pax pictured the location in his mind. “The sniper could be above the wadi a half klick northeast. We can sneak up on the prick and take him out.” His gaze turned to Dr. Adler, and he frowned. This wasn’t the sort of op in which a civilian could tag along.

  Cal could read his thoughts. “I’ll forget the fifty you owe me if you take babysitting duty,” he said.

  Pax snickered and was tempted to demand a hundred, but he’d rather go after the sniper. “No deal.”

  “I’m a better shot at distance, and this is likely to be a long one.” Cal’s gaze slid to the archaeologist. “And you’re better with the ladies.”

  Dr. Adler snorted, then glanced up and down the narrow, dry-as-bone riverbed. She met their gazes in turn. “If you can get him, you should. I can hide and wait.”

  As much as Pax liked that plan, there was no way in hell they’d follow it. He gave Cal a sharp nod. Pax was no slouch at sniping down snipers, but Cal was an ace. “I’ll stay with Dr. Adler, but you’re buying tonight at Barely North.”

  Separating was far from ideal, but since when was combat ever ideal? And sure as shit checking out the tip about Dr. Adler as a favor to the XO had turned into a full-blown combat mission. “This is not how I pictured spending my day off,” he added.

  “Think of the overtime pay,” Cal said.

  “You’re going to need it, because I intend to blow past the two-drink limit tonight.” He pulled out a map and spread it on a rock between him and Cal.

  The sun beat down, glaring off the plastic sheet that protected the paper map. Sweat dripped from his hairline onto the plastic. He’d start with a frozen drink. He didn’t give a damn what kind, so long as it had a lot of ice.

  Cal pointed to a ridgeline above the wadi. “Along here”—he traced the contour with a fingertip—“he’d have a line of sight on Charlie. It’s lon
g, meaning this sonofabitch has skills. Plus, he’s feeling smug because no one on the ground can get a line on him.”

  “Time to take the smug bastard down a notch,” Pax said, tucking the map away. “Dr. Adler and I’ll continue up the wadi. See you on base.”

  Cal cracked a grin. “Not if I see you first.” He turned to Dr. Adler. “Ma’am, it’s been terrible meeting you. I hope when we meet again there will be fewer explosions and snakes.”

  Adler laughed. “Agreed.”

  His gaze flicked to Pax. “Don’t let Pax scare you. He’s a teddy bear. Brooding means he likes you. It’s how he flirts.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to go?” Pax asked his teammate in exasperation.

  Cal grinned at her, then turned to Pax, and in a flash, the soldier returned. Cal could change from congenial buddy to Special Forces operator with a speed that would give some men whiplash. “Barely North at eighteen hundred. I’m buying.” He turned and jogged up the wadi, not slowed in the slightest by the heavy pack on his back.

  Adler met Pax’s gaze. “A teddy bear? Somehow I doubt that.”

  Pax kept his face blank as he studied the woman who had seriously screwed up his day. “Grizzly, teddy. Cal gets those terms confused.”

  Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile. Her gaze turned serious. “I’m sorry I was an ass earlier.”

  “Not so much an ass as an idiot.”

  She nodded. “That too. I was awful. And I’m sorry.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “Apology accepted.”

  She tilted her head down the wadi, opposite from the direction Cal had gone. “I take it we’re heading that way?”

  “Yes. We don’t know what’s waiting for us. So we’ll take it slow. Play it cautious.”

  She nodded and took a step forward. He stopped her with a hand on her arm, ignoring the zing of contact. “I go first.”

  “Sorry.”

  He led the way, scanning the wadi with his gun barrel with each slow step. Pretty much everything about this situation sucked. The sun had reached zenith, humidity was at about a thousand percent, Cal had gone off to take on a sniper by himself, and Pax was stuck with Morgan the Foul-Mouthed Fairy.

  As if cued by his thoughts, Dr. Adler let out a stream of curses. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I started mentally cataloging everything that was in the car: my computer, field notebooks, camera. All my site notes, all the excavation photos, all the strat drawings. Gone.” More curses escaped her lips, her invective directed at Desta and his ancestors, followed by “Arugula served with goat spunk on moldy toast is too good for that pig-faced dung beetle.”

  “You must hate arugula.”

  “Arugula is Satan’s lettuce.”

  Since she couldn’t see his face, he allowed a full smile. He wasn’t a fan of arugula either. “Did you have backup for the data?” Pax asked.

  “The minister of culture has copies of some of the field notes—preliminary findings, project updates, but not the detailed maps and drawings. Not the hardcore data.”

  A noise up ahead had Pax stopping short. He held up a fist at shoulder height to signal a halt and hoped Adler knew the sign. She stopped immediately and caught on to the need for silence.

  He listened, knowing he’d miss the softer notes because his hearing was still muted by the blast. But even so, the sound of gunfire was unmistakable, as was the basalt spall that hit his shoulder, having been dislodged from the rock to his right by a bullet.

  He grabbed her and dropped down, dragging her behind a boulder. He cursed silently. He’d caught a glimpse of at least two men before one had squeezed off the shot.

  “Give me a gun,” she whispered.

  He startled and met her gaze.

  Her eyes flicked to the Sig on his belt. “Give me the Sig.”

  “Are you nuts? You know what would happen to me if anyone found out I gave a civilian my gun?”

  “I’d feel safer with a gun, you aren’t using it, and we’ve got at least two militants shooting at us from forty feet away. This isn’t the time to worry about what your XO will say.”

  He placed his hand on the Sig. Shit. She had a certain logic. And if something happened to him, she’d be facing down armed militants alone. They’d kill Pax, but Dr. Morgan Adler? She’d be kept alive. Spoils of war. In Somalia, which was less than ten miles away, ISIS stripped adolescent girls, stood them on auction blocks, and sold them into sexual slavery. Adler would almost certainly suffer the same fate if taken.

  “I don’t suppose you know how to shoot?” he asked.

  She gave a sharp nod. “I’m a good shot.”

  Pax hoped she wasn’t lying.

  He handed her the Sig, and she checked the load like someone who was well versed. She rammed the magazine back into the handle. “I’m rusty, but I know what to do.” She glanced down at the weapon. “Are the sights true?”

  He nodded.

  “Good.”

  “You won’t be shooting at paper. Can you shoot a person if you have to?”

  “Do you think these men had anything to do with the explosion?”

  “Yes.” He did, but he’d have said yes either way.

  “Then I will blow the motherfuckers’ squirrel-sized peckers off.”

  He smiled, for the first time thinking he might like this woman.

  He pulled out a mirror on a telescoping pole and extended it until he had a fix on the shooters’ position. They’d have a better shot at the bastards if they took cover behind a boulder fifteen feet to the left. “I’m going to lay down cover fire while you run to that boulder there.” He pointed. “Can you do that?”

  He could see the fear in her eyes. It was one thing to shoot at targets in a range, another thing to run across a fifteen-foot opening when there was potential for bullets to fly. She straightened her spine. “I can,” she said firmly. The alarm in her wide blue eyes disappeared behind a veil of courage. She meant it.

  Even more important, she believed it.

  He gave her a pair of earplugs and inserted his own. Things were about to get loud.

  They both moved to a crouching position, and he counted to three with his fingers. On his signal, he opened fire with the M4 and she ran. Short to average height for a woman—he guessed five-four or five-five—she ran in a fast, low crouch, becoming a tiny target with lightning speed. She moved like this was something she’d trained for, making him wonder if she participated in paintball wars or something similar back in the US.

  She reached the boulder unscathed and signaled to him. She tucked herself into the cover like a pro and positioned herself to take a shot. He realized she intended to lay down cover fire for him. He shook his head. He’d fire his rifle all the way across. It would be more effective, and he had far more rounds for the M4 than he did for the handgun.

  But he couldn’t help but grin at the thought of her laying down cover fire for him. Dr. Morgan Adler was a woman full of surprises.

  With quick bursts of gunfire, he crossed the opening. The sound echoed through the wadi, the vibration moving the humid air. Again by her side, he nudged her over, into the deepest cover, and he again used the mirror to scope out the enemy.

  A crevasse split the wadi wall, and at least one gunman had taken refuge in the fissure. He could see a toe peeking out from the cleft at ground level and the barrel of a rifle poking out at hip height.

  Sloppy. These weren’t trained soldiers.

  A relief, as his A-Team had been training locals, and the idea that they could be under attack from one of the men he’d been teaching to be a guerrilla fighter was a repugnant but ever-present concern.

  With his gun fixed on what he estimated was the shooter’s head height, he waited. He’d give this poor excuse for a solider five minutes. If he didn’t show himself, they’d crisscross to the next boulder.

  But the bastard did Pax a favor and peeked around after only thirty seconds. Pax squeezed the trigger as the gunman raised the barrel to his eye. The pri
ck might as well have held up a sign. Blood splattered the boulder.

  One tango down, at least one more to go.

  Behind him, he heard the scrape of Adler shifting her position. He turned, hoping she wasn’t freaking out over the bloodshed. Shit. The other man had circled around. He lunged as he aimed his gun at Dr. Adler.

  She squeezed off a shot before Pax could raise his weapon.

  The man dropped and curled into a ball.

  Holy Christ. She really had shot him in the pecker. The man howled in agony.

  “You should have aimed center mass.”

  “I was aiming center mass. As I said, I’m out of practice. Plus, he was charging.”

  Pax pulled out his earplugs and approached the writhing man. He kicked the man’s weapon away from his hand and searched his body quickly. No more weapons. This guy couldn’t hurt anyone. “How many more?” he asked in French. “How many men are in the wadi?”

  The man sobbed denials that there was anyone else blocking their path to the base, and begged to be taken to a US medical facility.

  No way would Pax risk himself and Dr. Adler to save a man who’d been charging in for the kill. They would continue down the wadi, heading for the base, hoping there weren’t more militants in position. This orchestrated attack on Camp Citron was unlike anything that had been attempted so far, and he feared further treats Desta had in place.

  He stood and brushed off his ACU. He’d gotten blood on the uniform. “Let’s go,” he said to Dr. Adler.

  The militant’s sobs turned to wails as they walked away, leaving the man to die in the hot wadi. “Desta,” the man said. “I can give you Desta.” More words tumbled out, but Pax spoke little Arabic, so they were meaningless. The man switched to French, which Pax did speak. “I know where Desta’s encampment is. Save me, and I’ll tell you. You can send the drones that bring death from the sky.”