And even that hadn’t been enough to make her sleep. She was too restless, wondering what she was doing coming here, if it was too soon.
If anything would ever feel normal again.
You didn’t have to say yes, she reminded herself. She could’ve shipped stateside and gotten a job as an EMT somewhere.
Somewhere. That was the rub. Somewhere was nowhere for her. At least here, she was wanted. Or rather, her skill set was. Blood and medicine.
The rain splattered the first fat drops on the windshield half an hour earlier and then it quickly became a deluge—the driver had slowed, visibility was nil and the urge to tell him to turn back had grown stronger with each passing minute.
And then the roadblock had forced them to stop. She checked the bag she’d kept with her in the backseat—it contained her gun, an old Sig Sauer she’d bought when she landed in Sierra Leone. She bypassed it in favor of cash, which she handed to the driver. “Just give this to them—tell them that’s all they’re getting and we’re moving on.”
The driver repeated what she said and the men who’d been arguing actually had the temerity to smile widely, like they’d just found Christmas.
She hadn’t made it through all these years of combat unscathed to be killed on some road in Africa for the lack of ten dollars. Being practical like that hadn’t been her strong suit but she’d absorbed a lot of what Dan had taught her.
Her husband, killed on 9/11 in the North Tower. Most days, she could barely remember what he’d looked like without the aid of a photograph, and that was far too painful for her to look at. If she concentrated really hard though, she could hear his laugh, a low chuckle, the one that told her everything would be okay.
Until it wasn’t.
She could remember the abject terror of that day, but that was all. The rest was a blur of scattered information that brought smatterings of hope. A hope that faded as the day waned and was finally smashed to pieces by a phone call and a subsequent visit to the morgue too real for her to continue suspending her disbelief.
After the funeral, she went from EMT on the city streets to medic in Iraq. For a while, she was simply numb.
When she woke up, it was two years later and she was wearing full battle rattle.
But then it was too late for all of them.
She’d left because it was either move forward now or never. She didn’t consider enlisting a step forward. No, that had been more of a sidestep, a way to skirt the horrors of her reality with another horror. A distraction, a way to be useful when she hadn’t been able to on that fateful day.
But the distractions had failed to work lately, and she’d needed another option.
Doc J had promised that, contacted her with a letter through her CO several months earlier. He wrote that he ran a clinic, worked with missionaries, and he needed people with both medical training and combat experience. People who could handle themselves.
It’s a beautiful place, he’d written. A good place to come down from war.
“If it’s so good, why do I need combat experience?” she’d asked her CO.
“Always a good idea in a third world county. Not a place for wimps—or the unarmed.”
“How did he find me?”
Her CO had shrugged. “He’s got a lot of friends around here—including me.”
An ex-Ranger running a clinic-slash-mission in Africa. Well, stranger things had happened and even though she didn’t think she needed religion or that it could save her, she was intrigued.
She’d needed the change, she knew that. But as she looked around, she realized that a change would’ve been full-on civilian life. Coming here kept one foot that much closer to battle, but considering what she’d gone through before she’d enlisted, she knew she couldn’t have it any other way.
When the driver finally stopped, she unfolded from the backseat, grateful to be able to stretch, even though the rain was a soaking one. She felt vaguely seasick, like the earth was still moving beneath her, and figured it would take a while to get used to all of it.
If she stayed long enough for that to happen.
Then again, going home wasn’t exactly the best option for her. There was nothing there—nothing and no one.
The driver was dragging her bags out of the back of the Land Rover and across the wet dirt toward a small overhang, where she joined him. “Doc J is coming, okay?”
She nodded, turned to see who he was pointing at and barely heard the car pull away from behind her.
The man who came with a swift jog across the compound to meet her was tall. Broad. Intimidating. And when he got close, she noted he had the strangest-looking eyes she’d ever seen—more yellow than green, pale, with a dark ring around them. She’d bet they would be almost translucent in the sunlight.
His dark hair was tied back. His face was deeply tanned, grooved along his jawline, cut by a deep scar. His nose looked as if it had been broken, maybe more than once. He was anywhere between forty and fifty, although she’d guess closer to forty.
Far too young to be her savior.
“I’m Jason. Most people call me Doc J.”
She shook the outstretched hand. His voice was deep and calming, but instead of soothing her it had the opposite effect.
Immediately, she withdrew her hand from his rough one and stuffed it into her pocket.
He noticed, of course. He was the type who would notice everything and it took the last of her resolve not to run after the car that was now too far down the road to save her.
She wondered how much the man with the fantastic eyes knew. No doubt he had every detail. She’d been told there was a careful screening process, that they needed stable, committed people.
Perhaps they’d mixed that up with, needs to be committed.
When that thought made her smile on the inside, she knew she’d be okay, at least for a little while.
“I’ll show you where you’ll be staying,” he called over his shoulder, because he was already walking toward the small houses across the large dusty center of the clinic. Hurriedly, she grabbed her two large duffels and dragged them behind her.
There was only one bed in the room—a row of windows on either side that were covered by mesh only, and a single lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling. Beyond, a small table with a single folding chair. That was it.
“It’s primitive, but you’ll have privacy,” he told her. “The head and the showers are out back—there are two of each. Generator goes off at dusk. Actually, it tends to go off whenever it feels like it.”
She couldn’t even bring herself to smile at his joke. She was much closer to hyperventilation.
And then he said, “I need your help.”
He didn’t wait for her answer, was already walking, assuming she’d follow. His words were an order and although neither of them was in the military any longer, the inherent instinct of obey equals survival still ran strongly through her.
She grabbed her medic bag out of one of the larger duffels and caught up with him.
“There’s a woman—sick. I thought it was malaria, but now I’m not so sure,” Doc J explained as they walked, giving no indication as to why the patient wasn’t housed with the rest.
“So you must think whatever she has is contagious.”
“Not necessarily.” He swung open the door and let her inside the small, freestanding building.
The windows had been covered, so the breeze was minimal. There was a cot in the far corner, where the patient lay, surrounded by a man Rowan assumed was the woman’s husband, and two children, both of whom appeared to be between eight and ten.
The woman maintained her calm, trying not to worry the kids. The husband was attempting to do the same, and not succeeding nearly as well.
It was hard to watch those close to you suffer.
It was only then Rowan realized that Doc J had remained outside the tent and closed the door.
She moved forward with her bag. “I’m Rowan,” she said to the woman, but
she made eye contact with the rest of the family too.
“Julia,” the woman whispered. Her lips were dry; skin, clammy and pale.
“I’m Randy—her husband. This is Jocelyn and this is Jimmy. Come on, guys—let’s move aside and let Rowan look at Mom.” The man smiled tightly at her, moved the kids across the tent and began talking to them, presumably so they wouldn’t happen to overhear anything.
Rowan knelt on the floor by the woman’s bed, pulled out her stethoscope. “How long have you had your symptoms, Julia?”
“About a week or so. Not as bad—I thought it was just malaria. I’ve had that more times than I can count.” A small wheeze as she drew in a breath before continuing and Rowan noticed the tinge of blue around her lips. “The trouble breathing started about a day ago. I was so wrapped up in what I was doing I didn’t notice.”
“You’ve never had that symptom before?”
Julia motioned for her to come closer. “I have a bad heart.”
Rowan bowed her head, closed her eyes and listened to the chest sounds for a few minutes to be sure. And she didn’t like what she heard, mainly because it was consistent with what Julia had just told her.
When she looked the woman in the eye, she didn’t need to say anything. Instead, she excused herself and walked back out to Doc J to consult, wondering why the hell there wasn’t an actual doctor here.
Granted, without the necessary equipment, like a new heart, there wasn’t anything anyone could do.
“Pneumonia,” she confirmed to him. “Could be secondary to the malaria. Also, the heart rhythm …”
“I heard that too, was hoping it was due to fever.”
“It could be,” she said, but her instincts told her it wasn’t. She’d learned enough in Iraq, worked so closely with the doctors and nurses that she’d often been treated as such.
She’d never taken that responsibility lightly either. Because she wasn’t—she was simply damned good at her job as a medic. Read, learned and listened.
Right now she was listening and learning about Doc J.
“Can’t travel,” he murmured thoughtfully, almost more to himself than to her, but she answered anyway.
“I wouldn’t recommend it. Not until she gets antibiotics on board, which might not even work. She’s pretty far along with the infection.” She paused. “Will there be antibiotics?”
He smiled. “Yes. I don’t give them out unless absolutely necessary. IV will work faster. I’ll get the supplies.”
“We’re doing this in the treatment room, correct?”
“Here.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“You work for me, Rowan. You’ll do as I say. The procedure will be performed here, and if you can’t do it, I will.”
She clenched her jaw, felt the familiar tension rise up the back of her neck. It was a damned IV, for Christ’s sake. But the woman shouldn’t be kept in a small, dark space that didn’t exactly seem sanitary. “I’m capable of following orders, sir. I just didn’t realize I’d be doing it blind. If I’d wanted that, I’d have remained enlisted.”
She moved to march back into the room and wait for him to bring the necessary supplies, the lack of trust smarting, although it should have been expected. She’d been there less than an hour.
But Doc J caught her arm. “Soldiers are looking for her because she and her husband spoke out against the local government. They’re lurking within a fifty-mile radius, if not less by now. They’re sniffing, and the locals will only do so much before they’ll tell what they know.”
Rowan knew Julia wouldn’t make a car trip, and she guessed that, even with Doc J’s connections, bringing a plane or chopper in would be like skywriting The family’s here to the men after them.
So this entire place was painted with a giant bull’s-eye and she was smack-dab in the middle for now.
“I’ll explain more later, but she’s out of sight with her family for their safety.”
“What about mine?”
“You wanted safe, you shouldn’t have come here.”
“In your letter, you promised me—”
“Peace,” he said softly. “I promised you peace. Once you have that, you won’t worry so much about the safety part.”
She wanted to tell him that was bullshit—that she’d never be able to find peace, that her heart had been torn out and stomped on and now she was simply numb and battle-scarred.
But she didn’t. Instead, she felt the familiar anger rise up inside of her—except she couldn’t be sure who it was directed at, Doc J or herself.
CHAPTER
8
Zane woke as dusk fell, aware of Liv’s warm body spread beneath him, one bare leg still wrapped around his calf.
They’d fallen asleep less than an hour ago, unable to stop pushing and pulling each other, at the most base, physical level. And somehow, it was far more than just the physical between them—he felt the emotions breaking through the surface, especially when she kissed him.
And she’d kissed him a lot.
She didn’t stir when he shifted away from her. He hated to do that, but he needed to keep a watch, even though the rain still pounded around the house, which kept things dark and cool. He yanked on his still-damp pants, grabbed his gun and took a walk around outside, his footprints quickly and efficiently washing away behind him.
Of course, that meant anyone tracking them would have the same luck. But his instincts weren’t triggered, the perimeter wires hadn’t been breached and, when he was satisfied they hadn’t been found, he went back inside.
And Liv slept on.
He wondered when the last time she’d really slept had been and decided it was at least six months ago. And he liked that she’d been able to let down her guard with him.
He stripped off the pants again, wrung them out and hung them before walking back over to her. The blanket had moved when she shifted positions and she was partially uncovered. He had no problem taking a long look at the woman who’d cried out his name an hour before.
During sex, everything had been filtered through the haze of lust, but he’d have to be blind not to have noticed the tattoo that swirled across her abdomen. It was an odd place for a tattoo for a woman, but it looked good on her. At first, he’d thought it was simply an intricate swirl of design, but when he allowed himself to look closer, he saw it spelled out the word strength in a thin script.
Well, everyone needed their juju, he supposed. This was something she could never lose.
He mentally calculated the ammo he had left. Thought about the satphone and the backup battery for his GSM cell phone, plus the emergency number that could bring members of his SEAL team to help, if necessary.
Dylan was waiting. Caleb was already pissed about this whole undertaking—Zane could practically hear his brother’s vibes from here.
And then he looked at Liv again. She was still resistant, no matter how willing she’d been in his arms.
Baby steps. It was nearly time for them to move out, get them one step closer to Freetown.
He didn’t want to consider why he felt like that step would make him lose her completely.
Zane was looking at the tattoo. Under her lashes, Olivia watched him watch her, and for once she didn’t mind the gaze that lingered over her abdomen.
After all, she was the one who put the tattoo there in the first place, knew it would draw attention from her lovers. But those had been few and far between … and she hadn’t had more than a passing care about any of them. They’d filled a void, scratched an itch—no matter how crass that sounded, it was the truth.
“Do you like it?” she heard herself ask in a voice that was slightly husky from sleep.
His eyes lit. “I like it. All of it.”
She didn’t think anything could make her blush again, but that did, creating a warm heat that spread from her cheeks to her toes.
“I had it done when I was sixteen,” she said, ran her hand over it, enjoyed seeing the heat rise
in his eyes.
God, the man had the ability to make her forget everything, even the reason she’d gotten the damned thing in the first place.
And it wasn’t an easy reason to forget. But the urge to push him away, thoroughly disgust him, still plagued her. She owed him a lot for saving her, owed him even more for searching for her all this time. He deserved to know, to understand, why the thought of going back, of being vulnerable and out of control of her life, scared her so badly.
But she wasn’t ready to talk about all of it, could still hear the echo of him whispering, Liv, urgently in her ear, like he’d had the most important question in the world for her to answer—and he continued to ask, with his mouth, his hands, his tongue. She’d answered with a tug to his hair when his mouth found her breast, a low groan when his lips brushed her sex … a cry when he filled her.
She thought about the picture of her he’d carried with him for the past six months. Thought about the way he watched her so carefully, like he knew things she hadn’t told him yet.
The room remained dark as the rain intensified. She lay on her side, curled toward Zane, sated but not thoroughly spent. The air had cooled incrementally, and her time with DMH had stopped replaying itself like a bad movie inside her head.
“God, I could go for a margarita,” she murmured.
Zane was sweating, but still somehow managed to seem impervious to the heat’s other effects. He wasn’t slow or sluggish. His eyes were bright and alert and he handed her the canteen.
“This is the best I can do for now,” he told her, and she took it and drained the last of the water. “You’ll have to wait a few days before I can grant you your margarita wish.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“You can hold me to a lot of things, Liv … I’m more than willing to let you have your way.”
He shouldn’t be able to make her tingle like that, but he did. It would be so easy for her to lose herself in him again. Easy, but not what she needed most.
Instead, she told him, “There’s a man—a medic my friend Ama told me about who runs a clinic for missionaries and locals too. I want you to bring me to him.”
Promises in the Dark Page 11
