by Rachel Grant
He turned to the man who had the power to crush his career and decided to face him head-on. “Sir, I understand you’ve requested I be assigned to your post in Virginia for temporary duty.”
“Yes, I did.”
Pax forced himself to relax his posture, which had been inching toward attention. “I’m speaking to you now not as a subordinate, not as a soldier, but as a man.” He didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t need permission, not for this. “I have feelings for your daughter.”
Behind him, Morgan sucked in a sharp breath.
“But given the situation, this is neither the time nor place to pursue those feelings. It remains to be seen whether the future will present a better time and place, but your machinations are not welcome. I am a Special Forces operator. Do not take that away from me. Not only would you be doing the country you have sworn to serve a disservice, but the harm you do to your relationship with Morgan might be irreparable.”
The general’s expression remained unchanged, but Pax didn’t really give a damn what the man thought. He turned to Morgan, who sat on the cot, frozen with one shoe on and the other in her hand. Her full, sexy lips were open, her jaw dropped in shock. He wanted nothing more than to slip his tongue in that mouth and make impossible promises. Instead he gave her a sharp nod. “Enjoy your dinner. By the way, he knows you aren’t a vegan.”
Her jaw snapped closed, and her eyes widened.
He winked at her. “We’ll talk later.”
She flashed a brilliant smile. “Send me a text.”
He intended to. He’d start with a picture of his abs.
Dinner with the general wasn’t the ordeal Morgan feared, but it also wasn’t a joyous reconciliation that magically fixed years of resentment and rebellion. But it was steak night at Barely North, so she was thankful Pax gave her the heads-up on the fake vegan front.
“Your mother doesn’t know you were in danger,” her father said as he sliced his steak.
“How did you explain your trip, then?”
“She doesn’t know I’m here.”
“And you’re just telling me this now? What if I’d called her?”
He cocked his head. “When was the last time you called your mother out of the blue?”
“Actually, it’s not Mom I don’t call.” It was refreshing, speaking frankly to him.
His mouth tightened, and his gaze dropped, surprising her. Her words had hurt him. It had never occurred to her she had the power to hurt her father’s feelings, because he’d never expressed regard for her opinion. The notion she’d upset him triggered guilt, but she dampened remorse with the reminder of all the pain her father had served her over the years. Hell, the humiliation he’d inflicted his first evening in Djibouti.
“Sergeant Blanchard has an exemplary record.”
“I won’t discuss him with you, General. I don’t want or need your approval.”
He frowned. “You’ve never wanted or needed my approval.”
“That’s not true. I wanted it. I just never received it. I’ve learned to make do without.” She pushed her baked potato across her plate. She was rapidly losing her appetite.
“Well, it’s hard to approve when you’re throwing your life and money away on useless degrees.”
It had been too much to hope he’d change. She took a deep breath followed by a sip of wine. He’d tried, at least. Give him credit for that. He just reverted quickly. “Why did you come to Djibouti?” she asked.
“Because you were going to screw everything—”
She slid back her chair and stood. “Good night, General.”
He caught her hand, preventing her escape. His face pinched as he took a deep breath. Finally, he said, “I came because I was worried about you. I was terrified you’d get hurt, and it would be my fault because I’d insisted you stay. I came to convince you to come home with me. That’s why I wanted the Navy to take over the project, why I belittled you at that meeting and tried to make you sound incompetent. Because I want you safe at home.”
Morgan dropped back into her seat. She curled her fingers around his, no longer captive, now holding on. She didn’t think she’d held his hand since she was eight years old. “You aren’t the reason I stayed. That phone call had nothing to do with my decision. I stayed for Linus. I couldn’t just walk away from a find like that.”
His fingers tightened around hers. It was a start.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Morgan settled on her cot with her cell phone and a bowl of rocky road ice cream. She’d skipped dessert with her dad so she could enjoy the cold treat in the privacy of her CLU.
She smiled. Pax had texted her. Her heart fluttered when she saw the picture of his perfect abs. She held the phone to her chest with eyes closed and took a deep breath against the rush of emotion. The selfie was as much a declaration as his words to her father.
She typed out a quick reply: Nice photo of #4.
His response was immediate: #4?
She took a bite of ice cream, savoring the flavor. Savoring the moment. Your abs are #4 on my list of things I want to lick.
Pax’s reply: Ah. Well, convenient, because you’ve already sent me pictures of my #2 and #3.
She grinned, thinking of her earlier selfies: breasts and mouth, giving her a good idea of what his number one was.
He sent another message before she could reply: How was dinner?
She responded: Awkward and painful, but also good. We’re talking, at least. Also, I think he approves of you.
Pax’s reply: And how much does that bother you?
She laughed. He already knew her so well. You have no idea. You’re screwing up 13 years of excellent rebellion, because you’re too damn perfect, you bastard.
His next text included a photo of his neck, chin, and lips. My official title is Sergeant Bastard, Dr. Adler.
She stared at the photo for a full minute before responding. Sergeant Sexy Bastard. Nice combo shot of #2 and #3. I just licked my phone. She sighed and sent another message. I suppose I have to make do with pictures?
He responded: Yes. Your father’s approval or not, I still have orders. And I also have a job to do here that requires 100% focus, and you are distracting.
She nodded even as she typed: I understand. I should be done here in the next two weeks. Then I’ll return to DC.
She finished her ice cream while waiting for his response. Wondering if the idea of them ever getting together was simply impossible.
She set the empty bowl aside when her phone chimed with his reply. Maybe I can get a few days leave when you finish. We can rendezvous in a hotel in Rome. I’ll start at #42 and work my way up to #2…then down to #1.
She replied: Yes to Rome or wherever you want to meet. What is #42?
His response made her laugh out loud: The answer to life, the universe, and everything. Also, the back of your left knee.
She touched the spot behind her knee, wondering if she’d think of Pax now every time she touched that particular spot. My right knee is now jealous. She sent the message, attaching a picture of the named body part.
It shouldn’t be, it’s #38. Crap. Cal just came in. I should go.
She replied: Good night, Pax. Thank you for facing my father.
She’d set the phone on her nightstand when it chimed one more time. I meant what I said. I have feelings for you, Morgan. I don’t intend to run from them.
Morgan dropped into her beach chair in the shade and pulled her field notebook from her backpack at her feet. She’d spend today’s siesta expanding on her notes from the morning’s survey. The sun was nearing maximum hot, and Mouktar and Ibrahim had settled down for their two-hour heat break.
Ripley closed the Humvee door—he must have finished calling in his midday report—and approached her. “The brass has given permission for you to return to your apartment. Does now work for you?” He nodded toward the field notebook in her hands. “Or do you need to finish that?”
She set down the book. “Now
is good. The notes can wait.” She dug around in her backpack and found her wallet, cell phone, and apartment key. She tucked the wallet and keys into her back pocket and slipped the phone down the front of her jog bra. She grabbed her hat and water bottle and said, “Ready.”
She climbed into the back of the Humvee. Sanchez had the day off, replaced by a young marine named Jeb Holloway, who took the front passenger seat. Holloway was all of twenty years old and had been eager to escape the base for the day. Morgan felt a tension in her gut—which she hadn’t realized she carried—unfurl as the project area faded from the rearview mirror. She’d wondered if this moment would ever come.
She wanted to slide open the window and feel the hot breeze generated by the vehicle bounding down the rough road at forty miles per hour. But open windows were forbidden according to everyone who’d guarded her in the last two weeks.
So air-conditioning was the only breeze she felt, and the cold air had the same artificial American feeling she felt on base.
She wanted to experience Djibouti in all its uncomfortable glory. If she was going to drive by starving children in an air-conditioned, armored Humvee, she should be able to give them food or water. Didn’t privilege come with responsibility?
That was why she’d cried during her first week in Djibouti. Here, she had enormous privilege. Unable to share it with the locals who were horrifyingly less fortunate, the riches sat heavily upon her shoulders, threatening to suffocate her.
Every instinct in her body wanted to scream, “Stop!” when she saw the children digging through the roadside trash heaps, which were as ubiquitous as McDonald’s restaurants in the US. But she held her breath against the scream, knowing the impulse to stop would do more harm than good.
They drove on in their luxury, and when the view from the window was too much, she averted her gaze.
This country wasn’t for the weak or idealistic. As far as she could tell, the only creatures that thrived here were the Northeast African carpet vipers.
They reached her apartment without incident. Holloway stayed with the Humvee while Ripley escorted her inside. Nothing had changed since her last visit. “I want to grab the rest of my clothes and the research books,” she said. “And look to see if Broussard left anything besides books behind.”
Ripley nodded. “I’ll box up the books for you.”
“Thanks. After I’m packed, there’s a restaurant down the street where we can grab a bite. My treat.”
He frowned at her. “No can do, Morgan.”
“It’s a tiny place. Locals only. Good food.”
He shook his head.
“Can we at least bring Hugo the coloring books?” From the desktop, she picked up the two coloring books along with the box of crayons her mother had sent. They’d arrived the day before the explosion, which was why she hadn’t given them to the boy yet.
“Hugo?”
“His father owns the restaurant. He’s ten years old. I’ve been teaching him to write English.” She could see Ripley’s face soften. “How old is your son again?”
He laughed. “You know he’s eight.”
She flashed a toothy grin. “Guilty.”
“We can bring Hugo the gifts, but that’s all.”
“If Desta really wanted to grab me, he could get me at the site.”
“Yes, but this area is populated. Too many unknowns. Your survey area is wide open and vacant. Visible. I don’t have to worry about a shot taking out an innocent bystander.”
“This must be so boring for you.” She was still, all these days later, getting used to the idea of having to ask for permission for everything she did. In a way, Desta had already made her a prisoner.
But at least this was her choice. It occurred to her that if she told Ripley she didn’t want his protection, he’d have no recourse. He couldn’t force her to return to the base with him. But she wasn’t a fool.
Packing went quickly. She decided to leave behind the souvenirs she’d gathered. If all went well, she’d return here and pick up the keepsakes for her mom and friends before she left the country. If it didn’t go well, she’d hardly regret the loss.
She didn’t find anything that might’ve belonged to Broussard other than the books she knew were his. Tonight, she’d flip through his remaining books and see if any notes or papers were tucked inside. It was a long shot, but what could she do? Spending time with Pax was out, and she could only take her father in small doses.
Packed, they loaded the boxes into the Humvee with Holloway’s help, then, coloring books in hand, she walked with Ripley to the restaurant at the end of the street. Ripley made an effort to look off duty, and she tried to look relaxed. In all probability, they both failed.
The proprietor greeted her warmly. He spoke no English. She spoke no Arabic and little French, but she’d learned the menu and he knew her preferences. He took one look at her companion and held up two fingers, asking if she wanted her usual for two. She glanced at Ripley with pleading eyes, but he shook his head. “No time, Morgan.”
She nodded, then turned to the proprietor and declined the food order. “Is Hugo in?” she asked hopefully.
No sooner had she said the words than Hugo entered from the back. His face lit up when he saw her, and he gave her a polite bow. He knew enough English to help foreigners, and while she’d been teaching him to read English, he’d taught her some Arabic. He was a far better student than she was.
She wanted to give him a hug but wasn’t sure how the gesture would be received. There was so much she still had to learn about the culture in Djibouti.
“Mogon! You back,” he said.
“I’ve missed you, Hugo.”
“I have been making the words. Just like I promised.” He glanced back toward the kitchen. “Don’t go.” Then he darted into the back before she had a chance to offer him the coloring books.
Ripley shot her a questioning look, and she shrugged.
A few minutes later, Hugo returned, waving a stack of papers. “See! I have made all the words.” His gaze fixed on her with utmost seriousness. “All. Of. Them.” He placed the bundle in her hands, and she smiled, seeing he’d been practicing his writing. The pages were filled with random words, far more than she’d taught him. It appeared he’d cracked the code and understood the basic phonetics of the alphabet. He’d tried to write every word he could speak.
Her heart ached to see words like gun, wor, deth, and drone, intermixed between momma, syster, and famlee. “You’ve done very well, Hugo.” She flipped through the pages, keeping her expression cheerful and proud. Her eyes teared at seeing Mogon on one page. She slipped it from the stack and handed him back the other pages. “Can I keep this one?”
He nodded as he beamed with pride. “And now that you are here, the Somali man will pay me five thousand francs!”
Morgan stiffened and met Ripley’s gaze. His eyes were equally wide with alarm.
“Somali man?” she asked.
“Yes. He has been in every day asking for the yellow-haired American woman and said he’d pay me if I let him know when you are here. He wants you to teach him to make the words too.”
Morgan opened her wallet and pulled out ten thousand francs—worth a little more than fifty US dollars. “Hugo, I will pay you if you don’t tell him.”
The boy’s eyes widened, and his mouth formed an O when he saw double the payment in her hand. He frowned. “I cannot take your money.” His expression said this pained him. “I have already told him.”
“I’m sorry, Hugo. I have to go.” She shoved the money, books, and crayons into his hands as Ripley grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward the door.
“Will you be back?” Hugo asked.
“No. I’m sorry!” She dropped another five thousand Djiboutian franc note on the floor as Ripley dragged her from the restaurant.
“Get to the Humvee!” he said as he pulled her down the narrow street. He cursed under his breath, and Morgan couldn’t blame him. She’d fucked up in goi
ng to the restaurant, complacent in the knowledge no one expected her.
It never occurred to her they knew of her fondness for Hugo.
She slid into the backseat as Ripley took the wheel, explaining the situation to Holloway. There was only one route to the main road from where they’d parked, and it would take them right by the restaurant. They rounded the corner, bringing the tiny business front into view.
“Get down!” Holloway shouted.
But she couldn’t. Shock and horror had her frozen as a man stepped out of the restaurant, gripping Hugo’s arm, holding a gun to the young boy’s head. Hugo’s eyes were wide with terror. Tears streamed down his face. In one hand, he still gripped the pages he’d written on, and in the other, he held the coloring books. The crayons slipped from his fingers and landed in the street.
“STOP!” she shouted.
“No,” Ripley said.
“Stop the fucking car!”
“I can’t!” Ripley yelled back.
Her life wasn’t worth more than that little boy. She would never be able to live with herself if they drove by, allowing him to die so she’d be safe. She wrenched open the door and tumbled out, into the road. Adrenaline surged, masking the pain of the abrading gravel as she rolled on the ground. She staggered to her feet as she heard the Humvee come to a screeching halt.
She didn’t look back. She needed to get to Hugo.
The man clutching the boy tightened his grip, pulling up Hugo’s arm at an awkward, painful angle, but he no longer held his gun on the boy’s head.
“Don’t hurt him. You can have me.”
She knelt before Hugo, aware that the militant’s gun was now pointed at her head. “Go inside, Hugo. Go to your father.”
“I’m sorry, Mogon!”
“It’s not your fault, Hugo. You are good. You did nothing wrong.” She pulled him to her and hugged him fiercely. She pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered, “Go now. Protect your family. I’ll be okay. I promise.” She shoved him toward the door.
The militant made as if to grab him, but she kicked his arm away. “NO! You can have me, but you will leave the boy alone.”
