Deadly Strain (Biological Response Team)

by Julie Rowe

  “Punching bag is more my style. Sometimes I spar with another one of the guys. Rasker...” The rage he normally kept locked down threatened to explode. He had to forcibly stuff it down into the mental prison he’d constructed back when he was a kid. Everything that went in there never came out.

  “Rasker and I liked to keep our skills sharp.”

  A soft, feminine hand slid over one of his to squeeze and stroke. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have saved him.”

  “Not your fault. The assholes who shot our aircraft down are to blame.”

  She stroked his hand once more before pulling hers away. “Sounds like we’re both going to need therapy when we get out of this mess.”

  “That’s my girl.” She wasn’t his. He had to keep telling himself that, because the second he didn’t, he was claiming her in his head.

  Kissing her.

  Taking her on the dirt.

  Get a hold of yourself, asshole. She was a career officer, and a damn good one. This was not a woman he could romance and see when he was on leave. The rules of fraternization were clear. She was a major and he was a long way down the chain from that. If they were found out, they’d both lose big. He had to stop creating X-rated fantasies of her in his head. What happened today was a onetime thing born out of the stress and danger they were in. That was all. He was a professional, damn it. She was a fellow soldier and a good friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

  She sighed, shook her head, got up on her knees and opened her pants. She had to wiggle a little to get the waist down over her butt, then she sat down in the dirt and pulled her left leg out.

  Her panties were pink.

  The panties his hands had just been inside were fucking pink.

  Holy Mother of God, he was going to go to hell. He couldn’t take his eyes off the scrap of fabric between her legs, and he could almost feel the wet heat of her against his fingers again. Then she let out a pain-filled groan and his gaze jerked loose to land on her bloodied calf. It was still oozing blood.

  “Damn it,” Grace hissed between clenched teeth. “I think I just tore the scab off.”

  He should shoot himself in the foot for lusting after a wounded woman. “What made the wound? A piece of shrapnel or a bullet?” Sharp scooted over until he could get a good look at it. He reached into a pocket on his right thigh and pulled out a small LED flashlight covered by red translucent tape. He turned it on and shone it at her leg.

  “Shrapnel probably. During the crash,” she answered.

  He palpated the skin around the wound, trying to discover if anything was in it that shouldn’t be there. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Close it with a few Steri-Strips and bandage it up,” she ordered, sounding much more like her normal businesslike self. “I can get it properly cleaned out when we get to a base.”

  He had a few of those small, but useful bandages in another pocket, but he didn’t want to use them up until he had to. “We got extras of those?”

  She reached into the backpack behind her and pulled out a compact first-aid kit. It had everything he needed inside.

  He cleaned up her leg first, using a few iodine swabs. He waited for that to dry, then closed the jagged-edged wound with four Steri-Strips, covered it all up with a nonstick dressing pad then wound a self-adhering bandage around her calf until he was certain it wouldn’t come undone.

  She watched him silently throughout the whole operation, but as he finished she said, “Nice job. Ever thought of going into medicine?”

  “Not really, though adding medic to my skill list wouldn’t be a bad idea. Uncle Sam likes us special soldiers to have as many skills as possible.”

  She snorted at that, got to her feet, tried to stand on one so she could put her pants back on but wobbled badly.

  He surged up and caught her, wrapping both arms around her waist and back before she landed in the dirt. “I’ve got you, you’re okay,” he whispered.

  Her whole body shook once, then she pressed her face into his neck, took a deep breath and seemed to completely relax. “Oh.”

  Since she wasn’t screaming or trying to get away, he was going to go on holding her, earning himself another decade or five in hell. A few seconds passed before he asked carefully, “You okay?”

  “Yeah, you just smell good.”

  “Finally, a use for my dirty, stinky laundry.”

  “Oh no,” she said, her elbow in his ribs telling him to let go. “You’re not turning me into your laundress.”

  “Laundress?” he asked, loosening his hold on her until he was sure she wasn’t going to fall over. “Who uses the word laundress?”

  “Fine. Housekeeper, maid, girl Friday, whatever you want to call a woman who cleans up after you. I’m not it.”

  Sharp sighed with all the theatrical oomph he could muster and said, “Mom?”

  Grace pushed him over with a shove from both hands.

  He rolled with it until he was a couple feet away. Thank God he’d managed to keep her off the ledge this time with nothing more than his sweaty self. He glanced up and froze at the sight of Grace taking her shirt off. She shrugged out of the left sleeve and lifted her arm up to eye level. “This one isn’t as bad as the one on my leg.”

  Sharp hardly heard her, he was too busy staring at the finest set of breasts he’d ever seen. She wasn’t wearing any fancy lingerie, just the opposite. Her bra was beige, plain and appeared to be more solid than some canvas tents. No, what had his attention were breasts bigger than he’d imagined, and he’d imagined hers a lot. And her waist was smaller than he’d expected. Her body armor made her look more padded around the midsection than she really was.

  She was hot.

  And very, very quiet.

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers. Oops, she was giving him the stink eye. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. They’re—” he glanced down again real quick “—amazing, and wow, you’re totally gorgeous, you know that, right?” So much for professional, jackass.

  She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you turned into a college junior just by looking at my boobs. I’m wearing more fabric than most bikinis.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t put that image in my head. Have you no compassion? No pity?”

  “Fine. Here. They’re covered up.”

  He cracked open one eye. She’d brought her shirt across her chest to cover herself.

  “Now, can we get on with dealing with my arm?”

  Damn. That fabulous view was all gone. He should have kept his mouth shut.

  Patching up her arm took less time than her leg. Then she turned around and put her shirt back on.

  Spoilsport.

  “Your turn,” she said. “Take off your pants. I want to take a look at your thigh.”

  On one hand, he was happy to take off his pants and get that wound dealt with. The problem was, now he knew just how much she loved being touched, how her internal muscles had gripped his finger, and he could imagine what it would feel like when they gripped his cock. He was primed and ready to go all over again.

  Waiting was only going to make her pissed at him again. Might as well get the yelling over with. He began to disarm all the extra gear strapped to that leg, then went to work on his belt. Just before he pulled down his fly, he cleared his throat and said, “Don’t take this too personally, okay?”

  Grace frowned. “Take what personally?”

  He pulled his pants down enough to pull his leg out, and managed to keep the bulge in his underwear somewhat hidden. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to notice or not. A smart man would go for not, but he’d been all kinds of stupid today. “Never mind.”

  Grace shook her head and leaned forward to prod his thigh.

  Having her head so close to him made things even bigger than they already were.
Fuck, she was killing him.

  “Looks like a through-and-through. I’ll clean it now, but it may need to be cleaned again.”

  “No problem, Doc. I expected that.” If she didn’t hurry up, he was going to poke a hole in his shorts.

  She didn’t use Steri-Strips on him; rather, she used iodine to clean the wounds, packed the holes, front and back, then covered them with pads and began bandaging them both to his leg with another self-adhesive bandage. They were rapidly running out of those.

  She couldn’t quite get the roll of bandage around his leg. He was still holding his pants over his crotch. She nudged his hand.

  “Uh, Doc, maybe I could do this part?”

  “You need two hands and a clear view of where the bandage is going. Not happening. Move.”

  He hesitated. This was going to suck.

  He removed his hand, taking the material he’d been hiding behind with it.

  She moved to continue with the bandage, but stopped suddenly as she noticed his aching boner.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Holy shit, Sharp. Do you always rearm this fast, or has it been a while?”

  Chapter Eight

  It wasn’t the amazement in her voice or how her jaw dropped open that made him laugh. It was the question.

  His whole body shook with the effort it took to keep the guffaws from exiting his big mouth.

  She didn’t frown, she glared at him with her whole face. Brows low, upper lip retracted, teeth clenched and nose screwed up like she was trying hard not to smell something reeking worse than a week-old corpse.

  “Really?” she asked.

  “I just don’t know if I should feel embarrassed or proud,” he managed to get out without making too much noise. “You should see the look on your face.”

  She scowled at him for another moment, then went back to bandaging his leg, muttering, “Men.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a natural physical response.”

  Her hands finished bandaging up his leg. “Who are you trying to convince? Me or National Geographic?”

  National Geographic? For a moment, he wanted to laugh at her comment, but there was something... He studied her. She was joking like she always did, but there was an underlying thread in her tone containing no humor at all. He was tempted to let her do it, to go along with the penis joke, play it safe. But her shoulders were tense and she wasn’t looking him in the eyes.

  “You.” He let his answer stand on its own for a moment, then added, “Right now, you’re the only person who matters. We will survive. We will get back to base. I won’t accept anything less.”

  Her expression turned solemn as she looked at him, like she wanted to believe him, but wasn’t sure she could.

  He needed her to understand that when it came to what was between them, she was in charge. “We’re a team, Grace. I’m your weapon and you’re mine.”

  She bent her head to finish with his leg. “I’ve never wanted to be a weapon.” She paused for a moment. “I’m a third-generation military doctor who shoots at the marksman level, but I hate firing a gun. I killed five people today. I know it was in self-defense and there wasn’t any other choice, but it still hurts me that I did it.”

  “You’re allowed to be a human being,” he told her, taking her hands in his. “Even stubborn assholes like me have to work through the shit we see and do. That’s why the team is so important. We support each other, and you.” He pointed at her. “You’ve earned your spot on our team.”

  “Our team?”

  “Yeah, ours. As far as all the guys are concerned, you’re our doctor.”

  “So, what we did earlier, that was you taking care of me?”

  He watched her face, trying to determine how she really felt about it. Was there an ember of anger there? He couldn’t tell. Had to be sure. “That was a man showing a woman how gorgeous she is.” He hesitated, waited for her to respond, but she seemed deep in thought.

  Shit. Her whole family was in the army, one way or another. “When we get back to base, I’ll talk to Cutter, get reassigned.”

  Her startled gaze reconnected with his. “What?”

  “You’re too important to the training mission. I’m replaceable, you’re not.”

  “What the hell kind of bullshit is that?” Now she sounded angry.

  “I crossed a line...”

  “I sprinted across it.” She poked him in the shoulder. “You tried to slow me down, but I distinctly recall dragging you along with me for the ride.”

  He snorted. “I started it.”

  “I finished it,” she told him, glancing at his groin. “You’re not telling Cutter anything.” She stopped, frowned and asked, “Unless you want to be reassigned?”

  “No.” He smiled. “Not a chance. Of course, we have to get out of this mess first.”

  She shook her head. “I know how creative you are, Sharp. I’ll bet you ten bucks you’ve got a plan already.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah. I’ve played chess with you too many times not to know you’re a man who plans two moves ahead.”

  “Predicting what my opponent is going to do on a chessboard is a hell of a lot easier than in combat, or even poker.”

  “Touché.” She put the first-aid kit into the backpack, then faced him and glanced at his leg. “Pants?”

  The woman wasn’t going to give an inch. “So, are we good or not?”

  “We’re good,” she said after a moment or two. “It’s just...” She sighed and swallowed hard. “Earlier, when I freaked out...I really freaked out. I had no control over myself and that’s not me, but I can’t seem to stop it from happening. I hate it. How can I do my job if I’m...” She shook her head and pressed her lips together. “I’m damaged.”

  What had fucked her up so bad? “Hey, no harm, no foul. Feel free to freak out whenever you need to. You’ve earned a free one or two. Hell, I’ve seen you knock a marine off his feet who was too amped up on adrenaline to realize his flesh wound was bleeding buckets. That guy was twice the size of you, but you didn’t back down when he got all mouthy. You told him if he didn’t cooperate, you were going to fix it so his wife never had to use birth control again.” Sharp wished he could choke whoever put that look on her face. “We’re all damaged, and, fair warning, Doc, I have a protective streak a mile wide. I reserve the right to stick with you no matter how hard you flip your shit.”

  She nodded, but he could tell from her jerky movements she was already regretting telling him as much as she had. He had to get her refocused on their situation, demonstrate that he could keep his mouth shut and be the man she could count on.

  “Okay.” He gave her a sharp nod. “Here are our priorities. Stay alive and out of sight.” He ticked off finger after finger. “Watch for a rescue and/or retrieval team. Get the samples to your lab. Save the world.”

  She looked at him like he was a few bullets short of a magazine. “Save the world, huh?”

  He winked. “That’s what puts the special in Special Forces.”

  “Ham.” She rolled her eyes. “So, how do we achieve our priorities?” She gestured at the cave around them. “We seem to be alive and out of sight. What about the rest? If we don’t get these samples to the lab within the next twenty-four hours...” She paused, tensed, then continued, “The anthrax attack in the village was probably a test. To see how the strain would perform in a relatively controlled environment.”

  “It performed too well.”

  “It could kill hundreds, even thousands in hours. We have no time to waste, but we’re stuck here.” The last word was spoken in a frustrated tone bordering on anger and sorrow at the same time.

  * * *

  People were going to die. A lot of people, and there wasn’t a damn thing Grace could do about it. If the person wh
o’d created the anthrax strain in her samples were within her grasp, she’d cheerfully choke them to death.

  Sharp looked at her like she was some kind of pity case. Maybe she was, but she was also a doctor and a soldier, and she’d be damned if she’d allow some backroom herbalist who believed he could create and control a plague let his monster loose on anyone he pleased.

  This anthrax would consume everyone it came in contact with.

  Everyone.

  It could make the latest Ebola outbreak in northern Africa look like a minor blip on the world’s heart monitor.

  Sharp leaned forward and put his hands on her shoulders.

  She stilled, her gaze on his, her emotions balanced on the edge of a knife made slick by blood of their dead lying in the husk of the helicopter they left behind.

  “We reach our goals by putting one foot in front of the other,” he said with a voice as solid as steel. “Staying calm and remembering who we are.”

  She wanted to grab hold of him and never let go, but was he all talk and no substance? Would he dissolve into a mist at the first sign of trouble? “Who are we?”

  “I’m Special Forces Weapons Sergeant Jacob Foster, and you’re Dr. Grace Samuels, trauma surgeon and infectious disease specialist.” He leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. “We’re the best, the very best at what we do. We’re going to figure out our shit and we’re going to complete our mission. Right?”

  She swallowed. “Right.”

  One of his eyebrows rose. “Convince me, Doc, ’cause I’m not feeling it.”

  She narrowed her eyes, bared her teeth and spit the word at him. “Right.”

  He leaned back. “Much better. For a second I thought I was going to have to slap you out of your hysterics again.”

  “Ha. Stay out of my back pockets, soldier.” She sucked in a deep breath, pulled the backpack beside her over and began digging in it. The words were superficial, but safe, and they soothed something frayed and hurting deep inside her chest. She didn’t want to lose her friend, and he’d figured out how to give her what she needed again. “Guess we should take stock of what we have.”